


Gifts

by 20thcenturyvole, spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Horror, Claquesous POV, Gen, Imprisonment, Lovecraftian, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Other, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/pseuds/20thcenturyvole, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something ancient, something loathsome, something unspeakable resides in the darkest parts of the Bagne de Toulon and it feeds on the misery it finds there.  Once in a while, it finds a suitable host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psi-neko (psi_neko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psi_neko/gifts), [20thcenturyvole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/gifts).



> [20thcenturyvole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/pseuds/20thcenturyvole) drew some amazing art for this chapter and the next. They are embedded here, but please also go [check out the art post.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11707866) :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The puppeteer who once used the stage name Claquesous, spends some time in Toulon.

“It is with profound regret that I must recommend that the Bagne de Toulon be closed. I understand that the labor provided to the Navy is invaluable and we struggle to maintain our hold on the seas after the damage the National Convention did to its proud tradition. However, something unwholesome has come to reside within the bagne’s boundaries and the health of the guards and civilians who work here are placed in peril.” 

The above excerpt is from an unsent letter dated 29 Frimaire An VII found among Commander François Colbert’s papers after his tragic death on the following night. (December 21, 1798) 

****

**Summer, 1817**

“Hey, kid. Here it is. Welcome home.” 

The young man who had been convicted under the name Pierre Legrand, although the court acknowledged that that was almost certainly not his Christian name, looked at the space in front of him. It was not a bed. It was a shelf for storing men. There was a continuous plank that ran the length of the room, marked off every half meter or so with a thin rail to delineate one man’s space from the next. His old bed in his carnival wagon had been more spacious and, with its sack of hay, certainly more comfortable. And private. 

On its right side was his chain mate’s space and on its left was a wall. He supposed he was lucky to be at the end of the row, without a man on either side of him, but at the moment the tiny space looked claustrophobic. For once, he was grateful that he was not a bigger man. 

There was a long, narrow shelf that ran along the far end of the bed. The section above Pierre’s bed was empty, but looking down the row, past the countless places where men slept, he could see that other prisoners had all manner of small items stored on there. A bowl, cup and spoon seemed common enough, but also trinkets and bits of this and that. On the floor, at the foot of the beds, were filthy chamber pots. 

He tried to imagine what it would be like at night, when the room was full and hundreds of men slept side by side, lined up like books. In a moment of panic, he realized that for the rest of his life, every time he had to take a shit, he would do it surrounded by men, packed in close enough that he could reach out and touch them. 

His head spun and he sat down heavily on the edge of the plank that would be his bed. 

That space, along with the garish prison uniform on his back, were all he had left in the world. He automatically raised his hand to his head to run his fingers through his curly brown hair. For years, he had worn his hair in a shaggy mop. Together with his freckles and dimpled smile, the hair made him look boyish, he was told, and he greatly enjoyed the sort of company that look bought him. Instead of finding curls, his hand brushed against his prickly newly shaved scalp and the woolen hat that was a part of the convict’s uniform. With a sigh he pulled the green cap, the mark of the lifer, from his head and looked up at the man he was chained to. 

“It’s lovely,” he said. 

The man laughed, a short bark of a laugh and sat down beside him, tossing his own green cap on the plank. Chenildieu, he had said his name was. Short, wiry bordering on gaunt, his cropped hair had gone grey and his face was deeply lined with bitterness. “That’s the spirit, kid. My last partner was dumb as a rock. Sarcasm just slid off him.” 

Pierre smiled nervously. “So, what do we do now?”

“Do? Nothing. In a bit the work crews will be back. Then they feed us and lock us down.” He shrugged. “Tomorrow…who knows. You don’t do jack till they tell you, and then you do what you’re told and nothing more.” 

Pierre slid back on the bed and pulled his chained leg up so he could look at his ankle. He rubbed it ruefully. “How long…” 

“Before it stops hurting?” 

Pierre nodded. 

“The ankle itself? A few months, I guess. Keep that cloth under the shackle. It will help with the rubbing, though those bones that stick out on the sides are going to get bruised up. As for the rest of your leg…” he shrugged. “Maybe a year? Maybe less. You are young. You get used to it.” 

Pierre blanched but said nothing, stoically pulling his pant leg down. 

“They brand you?” Chenildieu asked, absently scratching his wrist. His arm was splotchy, like he had gotten into nettles. 

“Yeah. T. P.” 

Chenildieu laughed again, without mirth. “At least they got that right. The idiot who branded me got the letters in the wrong order.” 

Pierre looked at him, uncertain of what to say, but Chenildieu continued. 

“All that matters is the damned P. The T is ordinary enough: travail, torment. But the P? Perpetuity.” He was quiet for a moment, staring into the distance. Without turning his eyes back to Pierre he asked quietly, “Is it healed?” 

Pierre nodded again. “My exhibition was months ago, in Calais.” 

Surprised, Chenildieu focused back on Pierre. “Calais! And they sent you here? Brest and Rochefort are so much closer.” 

“Just luck of the draw, I guess. I’ve always wanted to see the Mediterranean.” 

Just then, the door to the salle banged open and pairs of men started filing in. The room suddenly got much louder as the air filled with the clank of their chains and their gruff complaints. A wall of stench hit him as the putrid odor of the chamber pots mixed with smell of hundreds of sweaty, unwashed bodies. Suddenly, he was dizzy as the sea of red and yellow, the uniforms of the hundreds of prisoners, spun before his eyes. He felt nauseous. 

The planks next to and across from them started to fill in. 

“Hey, Je-nie-Dieu,” said an incredibly ugly, large, red-capped convict from across the walkway. “They gave you another one!” 

“God, you’d think they could marry Je-nie-Dieu to someone with some meat on his bones. What good are those two sticks going to be together?”

“Look at that! He’s as good as a girl!” 

“These guys are all brutes. Ignore them. I will take care of you, kid!”

“After me!” replied another. 

“Better get to him before Je-nie-Dieu does. How long do you think this one will last?” 

Chenildieu growled, “Give the kid a break!”

“What is this, your third kid in two years?”

“Fourth!” cried another. “Remember, there was that quiet one who died in his first week.” 

“That guy was weak anyway. It’s a wonder the chain from Bicêtre did not kill him.” 

“That is enough!” Chenildieu cried. 

“Je-nie-Dieu is pining for Jean. Jeannot-le-cric. They’ll all die, ‘til he gets his man back.” 

They roared with laughter. 

To Pierre, the laughter sounded strained, bordering on hysterical.

“With Jean’s luck, ‘tis a wonder he is not back here.” 

“With Jean’s luck, he is probably in Rochefort.” 

Again, they laughed. Pierre wondered who Jean was. 

“Don’t listen to them,” Chenildieu said under his breath. 

“Hey, kid,” one of them said to Pierre. 

He looked up. The ugly convict stood in front of him. He was a large, muscular man with skin that had been darkened by the sun to a deep reddish brown. His face was grotesque, with a crooked nose, large blotches of purplish skin and an open sore under his right eye. “What’s your name?” He was easily twice Pierre’s weight and at least ten years older. 

It was an old trick, one that had gotten him out of tight places in the past, and he employed it without thinking. “Who’s asking?” Pierre replied, cheekily, throwing his voice so it seemed to come from his left. As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. He wished he had answered straight. His hands were shaking and he twisted them into the fabric of his pants to keep them still. 

“Did you see that?” one man asked another. “His lips did not move!” 

“Hey, do that again!” someone cried. 

The ugly man slapped him on the shoulder. “I like this one!” he proclaimed. “Je-nie-Dieu, this one’s got some life in him.” 

Chenildieu laughed nervously.

Outwardly friendly, the large man sat down, squeezing himself on the end of the plank between Pierre and Chenildieu. Pierre slid over, trying to make space, but he found himself trapped between this solid mass of a man and a wall of stone. His breath came rapid and shallow. In the back of his head, he heard the voice of his father, patiently coaching the panicked six-year old-boy he had once been, before he took the stage for the first time. He tried to slow his breathing. 

His father’s voice was drowned out by the giant sitting next to him. “Now, let’s get something straight, kid. Me, I’ve been here eighteen years. Your partner, here,” he put a large arm over Chenildieu’s shoulders and Chenildieu seemed to shrink under its weight, “he’s been here seven. Your green cap don’t mean squat ‘till you’ve worn it a decade.” He put his other arm over Pierre’s shoulder. Pierre thought that this man’s arm was probably bigger than his leg. “You, you pretty little worm. You do what you’re told. Got it?” 

Wide-eyed, Pierre nodded.

“Aww, isn’t that sweet? He’s shaking like a girl.” 

A round of snickers came from the crowd and Pierre tightened his grip on his pants, until his fingers turned white. 

“So, what’s your name, kid?”

“Pierre Legrand.” This time he spoke straight, with no tricks. The fact that his voice did not shake was a triumph. 

The big man spoke announcing it to the room, “Pierre Legrand! Ain’t that a laugh! My friends! This here is _petit_ Pierrot!” 

Someone else called out, “Naw, it is Pierre Lepetit.” 

Pierre cringed as the room took up, “Petit Pierrot” and “Pierre Lepetit”. 

“What’d they get you for, little Pete?”

“Assault.” 

“A wisp of a thing like you?” 

“I’m stronger than I look!” Pierre replied, with what bravado he could manage. 

The room laughed. “I am sure you are. You got life for assault?” 

“It was a copper.”

“So you are dumb, as well as cheeky.” 

Pierre forced a smile. “I was tricked.” 

“He was tricked! Hear that boys?” 

“We was all tricked!” cried someone from the back. 

The large man turned his attention back on Pierre. “See, was that so hard, Pierrot?” 

Pierre shook his head. 

The man got up and patted Pierre on the cheek. “We’ll get along fine, kid. Call me Le Roi.” 

***

The first few bewildering days faded into weeks. Pierre, who had never really toiled in his short life, found that moving around with the chain was hard enough. The unfamiliar weight made his leg ache and if he did not pay attention, he got his feet tangled in the length that bound him to Chenildieu. Add to it the stress of actually doing the work he was forced to do and he moved in a daze, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. 

When he made a mistake, Chenildieu would correct him. It did not take him long to figure out why his partner had the nickname Je-nie-Dieu - ‘I deny God’. For the first blunder he was kind enough, but if Pierre made the same wrong move a second time, Chenildieu would use language that would blister paint to set him straight. The first time Chenildieu asked him if he was paying attention or being fucked by St. Drogo, he had been confused. Things went downhill from there. 

Even with that guidance, the guards and their clubs were never far away. When a guard noticed his mistake, or when fatigue slowed him down, the blow that would fall on his shoulders made him cry out. At first, he tried to count the blows as a way to occupy his mind. That discipline lasted for a week. At the end of the second week, he realized that he had forgotten to count. He did not remember the last number anyway and he gave up. By the end of a month, he had learned to endure the blows in silence.

His civilian persona was set aside. The puppeteer and carnie performer who had delighted children and adults alike with his fantastical stories and vocal tricks sank into silence. The young man who had enjoyed the traveling life, and the endless banquet of new people to charm that such a life provided, found his world restricted to the dozen filthy men who bunked near him. The light fingers which had funded his recreation had nothing left to steal. He had never thought himself a loner, but the constant press of men, the sounds of them snoring in the night, grunting under the club and always complaining when they were awake, was overwhelming. 

He grew inured to the smell and his eyes stopped registering the red and yellow of the uniforms. The never-ending sound of the chains, however, still made his head hurt. Even in the depths of the night it was not quiet as men moved in their sleep. He had a dream that kept recurring. He knocked an earthenware cup off a table and it crashed to the flagstone below, shattering into pieces. He looked up at his mother to apologize, only to find the cup on the table again as he bumped it and it fell to the floor. Over and over, with no escape, this dream would carry him around. 

When the day was over, he would come back to his bed and curl on his side, his nose almost touching the wall. He would hold his cap pressed over his ear, trying to block out the noise. On the good days, he fell asleep almost immediately. When it was time to eat, Chenildieu would reach over and shake him and he would sit up, but no sooner had he eaten would he lie back down. The only saving blessing was that when he lay facing the wall, his shackled leg was down and he could, for a moment, pretend he was anywhere else. 

One evening when Chenildieu shook him awake, the wall had eyes. 

With a stifled scream, he jerked back, scrambling to his feet. He jostled Chenildieu in the process and his chain-mate swore at him. When he looked at the wall again, it was just a wall. It was stone, darkened in places where other men’s hands had touched. The two giant, black, bloodshot eyes, terrible eyes, terrifying eyes that had been looking out of the wall at him, barely a hand-span from his face, were gone. Hesitantly, he reached out and ran his fingers along the stone. 

“Pierre?” Chenildieu asked. 

He turned away from the wall. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a stupid dream.”

Chenildieu frowned and looked at Pierre with concern, but he said nothing. 

After dinner, Pierre lay back down, willing sleep to come, but the image of those horrible, creepy eyes kept coming back to him. The guards came through, locking their chains down for the night. He tried not to think of what it would be like if a fire broke out. He imagined himself and the men around them screaming and pulling futilely on the shackles as flames licked at their arms, catching their clothes on fire, while those eyes watched. 

Once, a lifetime ago, he had seen a circus tent go up in flames. Scores of people had been caught inside. Some had burned alive while others had choked to death on the smoke. He had been outside the tent, fetching one of the puppets that he had been repairing in his wagon. The entire tent had gone up in seconds. The salle was stone and not oiled canvas. A fire would not be the same thing, he told himself. Even so, every night when his chain was locked to a bolt on the floor, a knot formed in his stomach as he thought of being trapped. 

He rolled to his other side only to see Chenildieu watching him. “What?” he asked. 

Chenildieu had something in his hands. “Here,” he said. 

Pierre sat up and Chenildieu gave him a little figurine. In the dim light it was hard to tell what it was. An animal of some sort, he thought. Something with four legs. It felt smooth and cool in his hand. He looked back at Chenildieu curiously. “What is it?” 

“A horse.”

“A horse?” 

“Jean made it. He made lots of little animals in his last few years.” 

“Uh, thank you?” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Pierre placed the little animal on his shelf, next to his mess kit. Then he lay back down and fell asleep. 

The next day he examined the little horse in the daylight. During the night, he had taken it for wood, but when he saw it in daylight, he knew it could only be stone. It was made of some whitish crystal with a touch of pink in its depths. 

Pierre knew something of carving from making the faces and hands of his puppets. Looking at this creation, he marveled at Jean’s skill. The musculature was lifelike and the head was beautifully executed. He knew he could not have made such a thing in wood. How was it that this Jean had made it out of stone? In here, with no access to carving tools? He shook his head in bafflement. 

As he looked around, he realized that these little animals were everywhere. All kinds of animals: dogs, horses, frogs, fish, lizards and snakes. Many men had one or two on their shelves. Here and there, there was one tucked into a crevice. To have made one such creation was incredible, but Jean must have made hundreds. 

“Chenildieu,” he said after he examined the horse in the daylight, “Did you see Jean make this?”

“Of course.” 

“How did he…” 

Chenildieu shook his head. “Beats the crap out of me. It was remarkable. Every day he would look for an interesting rock when we were out at work. At night, while there was still light to see, he would chip away at it with a bit of steel he used as a chisel and a stone he used as hammer. It was almost as if….as if he were peeling an orange. The outer layers of the rock would just peel off and reveal the figure beneath.” Chenildieu shook his head at the memory. “He made one every night. Sometimes, when he got the chance, he would sell them in town, but mostly he just gave them away.” 

Gently placing the little horse back on his shelf, Pierre also shook his head. “Incredible.” 

***

One of the things Pierre found hardest was that he never knew what to expect. The bell would go off at five in the morning. Most days they’d be marched out of the salle at six, but some days it was nearly nine. Once they got to the worksite, usually there would be some task but sometimes they’d spend half the day standing around waiting for their assignment. Other times, there would be more work than they could do and by the end of the day the guards would be bearing down hard, trying to get it done. 

Today was no different. There was an entire cargo hold of a ship to unload, hurry, hurry, hurry. They had been working on it all morning and they were not given their mid-day meal until it was an hour late. But after the break, instead of being brought back, they had been taken to the prison barber. Now, he stood in line, waiting for his head to be re-shaved. Pierre leaned back against the wall and looked over at his chain-mate. 

“Chenildieu?” he asked. 

“What?” 

“What happened to your chain-mates? The ones before me?”

“They died, kid.” 

“How?” 

“Damned if I know. The whoreson of a God that landed us here brought them home, bit faster than me.” 

“They just…died?” 

Chenildieu shrugged. “Something like that. Georges and David, they lasted, oh… nine, ten months each? They died in their sleep. Henri died after just a week, but he was sickly when they brought him here. They never should have put him out to work.” 

“Oh.” 

Chenildieu punched him in the arm. “Buck up, kid. I’m sure you’ll do better.” 

***

**Winter 1817 – 1818**

Days gave way to weeks and weeks gave way to months. Pierre learned the rhythms of the bagne and his muscles hardened under the work. When he had arrived, there had been six men from his chain assigned to the salle that he lived in. Six men out of the three hundred that bunked in this room. By Christmas, three had died. They had collapsed while working and they had been taken back to their bunks to recover, but each died in his sleep that night. Other men in the salle died as well. One was crushed in an accident with the crane and a pair died when one fell off the dock and the chain dragged them both down. Others were released. It was said that some escaped, but no one that Pierre knew succeeded or even attempted. The empty chains were soon filled with new arrivals. The unwanted attention he had gotten at the start diminished as new men arrived to torment and his boyish looks disappeared under the grime and the misery. 

He slept poorly, though he never remembered the dreams. He developed a rash on his arms that would not go away. Some kind of oil, the others said. It was used on the boats and it would irritate the skin. 

He learned the names of the men on his work crew and those who slept near him. Instead of retreating into his corner each night, he sat cross-legged on his bed and listened to the talk. Across the walkway, there was Le Roi, of course, and his chain-mate Jacques. Like Le Roi, Jacques was a big man, a few years older than Pierre. He was three years into a five year sentence and every night he said a quiet prayer for a girl he had left on the outside. Next to Chenildieu was Thierry and his partner, Pascal. Thierry was quiet and withdrawn. More often than not, Pierre saw him staring blankly at the wall while his hands absently twisted the buttons on his pants. As a result, Thierry’s pants were missing half their buttons. His partner, Pascal, was voluble and friendly and a bit dim. Across from Thierry and Pascal and next to Le Roi and Jacques were the copper-knobs Étienne and René. Compared to the extremes around them, Étienne and René were only remarkable in that they shared fiery red hair and a pale complexion. They never developed the burnt-brown tan that most of the men did and their faces were perpetually peeling from the bright red sunburns they sported. It had been some guard’s idea of a joke to pair them and their presumed degeneracy was often commented on. Even though Étienne had some dozen years in chains and René had barely one, it was months before Pierre remembered which was which. 

Most nights, they complained about the guards, the food and the work, or made commentary about some fine girl someone had seen. Some nights, a savage game of dice raged. One night the conversation centered on a near miss on the dock. For weeks, they had been hauling planks and tar and nails as the _Souverain_ took shape in one of the great dry docks. Today, they had stepped the mainmast, but all had not gone smoothly. 

From the start, it had been a big to-do. Early in the morning, they had carried the mast from the workshop out to the dock. Then, the convicts had been lined up in silent rows behind the waiting mast as a ceremony of some sort unfolded on the deck. Pierre watched as naval officers, in their fancy coats, had filed by a hole in the deck, each dropping something small in. 

“What’s going on?” he had whispered to Chenildieu. 

Chenildieu had replied, “It’s some ridiculous naval tradition. They put coins under the mast for luck.” 

“Silence!” hissed a guard, bringing his stick down on Chenildieu’s shoulder. Chenildieu bowed his head with a grunt. 

Then the ceremony had finished and a priest had said a blessing. A shouted command had been issued by the Captain, which was repeated by the first mate, and then the bosun and then the bosun’s mate, until it was taken up by the guards. A hundred prisoners had lifted the mast as one. 

The mast was as long as the boat and lifting it into place was a complicated procedure with far more pulleys than Pierre had ever seen used in one task before. His crew had been manning one of the stabilizing lines, while other crews lifted the mast upright. Then, something went wrong. One of the lift ropes had snapped under the tension. The end of the rope had rebounded with tremendous force and had cut the man at the head of that line across the chest, slicing through his uniform and breaking his ribs. The mast swung around and an entire crew found themselves pinned under it. In the end, three men had been killed and half a dozen more had been taken to the hospital with broken bones and other injuries. 

While eating their dinner back in the salle, Le Roi said to Chenildieu, “Sure could have used Jean-le-Cric out there today.”

Chenildieu blanched. “You know what that means, don’t you? Had he been here, we would have been that crew on the front.” 

“Yeah, but if he had been here, he would have been able to lift the mast all by himself.” 

The other men nearby laughed and Chenildieu shook his head. 

Pierre looked around. He had heard of Jean-this and Jean-that for months now. Finally he said, “Will you tell me about Jean?” 

The response was immediate. 

“He was Chenildieu’s first husband.” 

“He was incredibly strong.”

“The unluckiest man ever.” 

“He’d never even pick up the dice.”

Le Roi added, “Have you heard about the time he climbed the wall of the salle?” 

Everyone groaned, but Le Roi soldiered on. “Little Pete, it was the damnedest thing. I think that was the first time I laid eyes on him. It was a Sunday afternoon and they had us out in the yard.”

“You said it was a Saturday, last time,” someone heckled from down the row. 

“Shut up!” Le Roi told them. “Where was I? Ah.” He was interrupted again, this time by his own fit of coughing. His chain-mate, Jacques, handed him a cup of water, which he took without comment. After a moment, he continued the story. “Right. Suddenly, a chatter went up, ‘Look! What is he doing?’ ‘Where?’ ‘Over there, on the wall.’ and there was this _gaillard_ , this convict, red cap and all, climbing up the outer wall of the salle. Think about that for a moment, would you, Pierrot. What’s the wall?” 

“It’s just smooth stone, isn’t it?”

“Smooth as a baby’s ass, yeah. There is nothing to hold on to. Yet, there he was, halfway up the wall, holding on to God-knows-what. He was not chained to anyone for some reason, and the _demi-chaîne_ was thrown over his shoulder. Up, up he went, hand over hand, foot over foot. Everyone just stood and stared. Even the guards, gape mouthed, just watched. When he got to the roof, he sat there and waited while the guards got a ladder and brought him down. The yard was silent. You could have heard a pebble drop as they led him away.” 

“Of course, everyone went and tried, but I am telling you, no one else has ever even made it off the ground.” 

Another man added, “And there was the time he held up a building.” 

“Anyone who is strong enough could have done that. Nothing but a bug could have climbed that wall,” said Étienne. Only Le Roi was senior to him on the crew and Étienne never missed a chance to challenge Le Roi. 

“Who else is strong enough to hold up a building? Atlas himself?” Thierry asked as he worried a button on his pants, twisting it a quarter turn left, a quarter turn right. 

Pierre frowned. “He held up a building?” 

“Not exactly. It was the balcony,” Étienne answered. 

“Of the town hall,” Jacques added. 

“We walk by it all the time. It’s across the harbor, on our way to the stockrooms,” Chenildieu said. 

Pierre thought for a moment and then looked up, clearly startled. “That balcony is huge!”

Le Roi took over the story again. “This was back in my first year or two. Or maybe three. They had several crews working side by side with tradesmen as they renovated it. I was not there, but from what I heard, the scaffolding supporting the balcony, the caryatids I guess they are called, collapsed. Mr. Unlucky himself happened to be there under the balcony as it started to go and he held it up long enough for someone to get a jack and everyone else to clear out. It was incredible. I heard that Jean-le-Cric had even been on the double chain right before that.”

“That’s when you are locked down all the time?” Pierre asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“For how long?”

“Years.”

“Years?” 

Everyone nodded. 

Pierre shook his head, disbelief clear on his face. “There is no way.” 

“I am telling you, Pierrot, it’s true. Ask anyone.” 

Pierre looked around. This conversation had gathered a crowd – maybe twenty men were clustered together near the end of the salle and as he looked around every one nodded. In the silence, another man, another short timer with just a couple years under the chain, spoke up. “I heard that he was the best man with a file, ever.” 

“Yeah, I heard that he could cut metal like butter.” 

Le Roi and Étienne both nodded. “Yes, that is true,” Étienne said. “I watched him once. With just the edge of a coin, he cut through his chain in minutes. He grinned at me when it was done and he even handed me the coin, but I never could get it to work. ” 

“The problem was that Jean had the devil’s own luck.” Le Roi said. “He got caught doing everything. He tried to escape like a dozen times! He made it out of the harbor three times…” 

“Four times,” said Chenildieu quietly. 

“Four times!” Le Roi corrected himself, not missing a beat. “Once he clocked the bounty hunter right in the nose when he tried to bring him in! Some guys escape and if you are willing to risk it – sure, take your chance. But Jean? He kept trying. Time and again, every time he was caught. And those were the successes. We lined up to watch him get flogged more times than I can count. Seems like every month he was caught with a file, or contraband or a filed chain or some dumb thing… He claimed that it was not his, that he did not do it, every time, but,” Le Roi laughed which broke into another ragged coughing fit. Once he got himself under control again, he added, “Who are we kidding?” 

“Why did he keep trying?” 

Le Roi shrugged. His voice regained some of its usual strength as he went on. “Who knows? Maybe he had a girl he wanted to get back to. God knows, he had no boys in here.” There was a snicker from the crowd. “He did stop, though. Was that your influence, Je-nie-Dieu?” 

Chenildieu shook his head. “No, he had sworn off the stupid stuff and had taken to carving the little animals before I met him. I think it was Javert.” 

“Javert.” 

“Ugh, Javert.” 

“Horrible Javert.” 

“Creepy Javert.”

“Who was Javert?” asked Pierre.

“Javert was a guard. He disappeared what…” Le Roi looked at Chenildieu.

“I think it was about five years ago. He was constantly hanging around Jean and me. It made my skin crawl. You know how it was with him? Watching. Watching Jean especially. He would stand there and watch Jean carve the animals with his eyes all crazy-like. Every now and then Jean would look up at him with a little smile and he would wink at Javert and Javert would get all pale and go storming off. Then, one day he was gone. I think that was like a year or two before Jean was released.”

“Javert was uncanny,” another man interrupted. “Something was going on, something was about to go down and Javert was there minutes before it happened.” 

“He caught me once,” Pascal said. “I was just leaving the shop and I felt my skin tingling all up my back.” 

“Like a tiger was about to pounce,” Thierry interrupted. 

“A tiger?” Pascal looked at Thierry, confused. 

Thierry shook his head, patient with Pascal’s limitations. “Never mind. Tell your story.” 

“Oh. Okay.” It took Pascal a moment to re-gather his thoughts. “I had a file. Thierry,” he glanced at his chain-mate who nodded in encouragement, “whispered to me. ‘Quick! Hand it over!’ but I was not quick enough.” 

“Ugh,” several said at once. 

Pierre looked at them strangely as Pascal continued. “I was new then. I did not know. His hands. They looked normal enough.” 

“But they were cold,” someone interrupted. 

“Slimy,” another added. 

“I did not know that his hands were slugs. And he was very strong. He twisted me towards the wall. He knew right where I had it, but he kept searching me for good measure. Putting those hands all over me.” Pascal shivered. 

Thierry looked at his chain-mate with sympathy. “You had nightmares for weeks after that.” 

“Especially when he was on night watch.” 

“No one slept when he was on night watch, it wasn’t just you. It was bad enough when he had your crew for the day.” 

“He was not like Vasques, though.” 

Vasques was a current guard, one who was well known for his cruelty. 

“You get nightmares about Vasques because of what he does to you. You got nightmares about Javert because of what he was.” 

“And what was he?” 

“A demon.” 

Pierre scoffed. “Now, you are being ridiculous.” 

“No, you do not know. You were not here.” 

There was a general sense of agreement. 

In the quiet that followed, Chenildieu commented, “I, for one, was not sad to see him gone. But I think Jean missed him.”

***

February arrived, raw and cold. It rained often, and when it was not raining, the mud froze into churned up lumps. Stumbling along behind Chenildieu, Pierre swore at the uneven ground. Their crew was quiet. Le Roi had died in the night. 

It was, in the end, a mercy. For the last week Le Roi had been in great pain but he had been too proud to say anything to the guards, to get himself transferred to the hospital. Pierre had overheard a whispered conversation between Le Roi and his chain mate one night. Jacques had been urging him to report sick but Le Roi had replied that he would rather die here, among the damned _gaillards_ he knew, than die alone in the hospital. Pierre suspected that most of the crew had overheard that conversation because the next day, a tacit agreement had sprung up between them, and they all did what they could to shield Le Roi’s growing weakness from the guards. 

When the bell rang in the morning, he had sat up to see Jacques was already awake, sitting next to the still body of Le Roi. Pierre met his eyes and Jacques shook his head. The guards were summoned, the joining between Jacques’s chain and Le Roi’s was broken, a crew was assigned to carry the body away, and Jacques was left locked down when the work crews left for the day. 

The day passed slowly and that night they had sat around, the absence of Le Roi’s big presence leaving a palpable hole in their talk. 

After a moment of silence, when no one found anything to say, Étienne said, “Have you young’uns heard about Le Roi’s famous toss of dice?” 

Pierre looked around, and joined the shaking heads. 

Étienne chuckled. “He was always better at telling other people’s stories than his own. Jacques, do you know it?” 

“I heard it once. You tell it, Étienne. You were there, right?” 

“Well, I was watching. I was not playing that night. You know me, I dice for peanuts. Not for money.”

“So did Le Roi.” 

Étienne chuckled. “Not in those days. In those days, Le Roi diced for coin. He was playing with a couple guys…not like him, guys with connections. Guys with money.” 

Étienne paused, looking pointedly at Pascal. After a moment, Pascal noticed. “What?” 

Thierry leaned over and staged whispered, “Your brother.”

Pascal snorted. “He’s not here, is he? Fat lot of help he is.” 

Étienne continued, “Well, anyway. The game was going badly for him and Le Roi was in the hole in a big way. The dice would not go his way. Throw after throw and he kept digging deeper. He was down ten francs, Twenty. People were shouting for him to get out. Thirty. The other guys were thinking that there was no way he’d dig himself out of that debt. He’d be emptying their shit buckets for years. They were about to take their winnings and walk away when he started to goad them. Why not give him one more toss. What did they have to loose? He’d double it. Sixty!” 

“Le Roi sure could talk,” Jacques said softly. 

“One toss. He came away triple. Wiped it all out in one throw. They guys he was playing against were none to pleased.” 

“I heard he got the crap beaten out of him two days later.” 

“Sure, but it was worth it, just to see the look on those guys faces.” 

“I wondered about him and dice,” Chenildieu said. “He never played for more than a few sous for as long as I knew him.” 

“I think he figured he used up a lifetime of luck in one toss.” 

And then it became quiet again, each lost in their own thoughts. _A lifetime of luck._ Pierre gripped his chain, feeling lost. The endless stretch of time in front of him was beyond comprehension. 

In the quiet someone asked, “That’s how many?” 

“In the last two years? Five.”

“No six. Chenildieu’s three, plus Le Roi, plus the...” 

“Shut up. Everyone remembers.”

Pierre looked questioningly at Chenildieu and Chenildieu whispered, “A pair, they slept two up, next to Thierry and Pascal. They were…you know. They,” Chenildieu paused for a long moment before he finished his sentence. “They killed each other,” he finally finished. “Thierry woke up, soaked in their blood.” 

“Oh.” 

“It didn’t use to be this bad.” 

Pierre asked Chenildieu quietly, “What do you mean?”

“You seem to be doing okay.” 

“What does that mean? 

Chenildieu replied, “It’s just been like this since Jean left. Before that, during the five years I was with him, there was not one death on this crew.”

“Oh,” Pierre replied. 

“You’ve now lasted a month longer than any partner I’ve had since Jean.”

“Oh.”

***

**Summer 1818**

As is the way of things, time goes on. Jacques was given a new partner. A taciturn veteran who called himself Jette after his birthplace in Belgium. He did his work and said little. When he did speak, he spoke softly, in heavily accented French.

During the spring and into the summer, they were working in town, digging the foundation for some building - a hospital maybe? It was miserable, wet work. The ground was stony and muddy sea water seeped in almost as fast as they pumped it out. The pairs were rotated between manning the pumps, digging and hauling. 

One day, he and Chenildieu were digging down in the hole when there was shouting from above and two of the guards suddenly went charging up the ramp. The guard that was left down in the hole with them blasted his whistle and yelled for them to line up against the wall, to get down. He stormed down the line, clobbering any man who did not comply quickly enough across the back of the knees. They knelt for nearly an hour, not daring to say a word. The cannon blasted and they knew there was an escape. Soaked through, they were marched without explanation back to the bagne. 

Chenildieu and Pierre had started to walk into the salle, but a guard stopped them. “No. Not you. You wait.” He pulled them aside. Pierre looked at Chenildieu, but Chenildieu shook his head. He did not know what was going on either. 

Vasques came up, armed with a rifle. “These two, too?” he asked the guard at the door. 

“Aye.” 

Vasques prodded them with the barrel of the gun. “Move!” he ordered. 

They started to walk, exchanging glances, but Pierre could see that Chenildieu had no idea of what was going on either. 

After a moment, Pierre spoke up. “Where are we going?” 

The guard growled. “To the dungeon. Until we have time to question you.” 

Chenildieu let out a small cry and Pierre looked at him. He had gone as white as a sheet. “Oh God…” he whimpered. 

“Silence!” the guard ordered, prodding Chenildieu roughly. 

When they arrived at the dungeon, Vasques shoved the two of them in. Pierre cringed, expecting a beating, but instead, the guard shut the door with a crash. They were in complete darkness. 

Pierre reached out to touch Chenildieu and he found him trembling. “What….what is going on?” he asked. 

Chenildieu replied in a terrified whisper, “I do not know. Oh God, protect me.” 

“Why are we in here?” 

“They probably think we know something.” 

“But we don’t. Or at least I don’t. Do you?” 

“No, no! Of course not! Oh, Lord, watch over us, please!” 

“Then why are you so scared? What happened to ‘I deny God’?” 

“Oh, God, I take it back, all I have said. Just don’t…What Jean told me, it cannot be true.” 

“What?”

“Fear, Jean said. They feed on fear. Calm, we must be calm.”

It was pitch black and Pierre could not see his hand in front of his face. Encased in the heavy stone walls, it was quiet. There was a drip of water, somewhere, and the sound of a mouse scurrying around. He could feel and hear Chenildieu move around at the end of the chain. He seemed to be crawling around. “What are you doing?” 

“The floor seems dry,” Chenildieu answered. “Jean said it was wet. Slimy even.” 

“What are you talking about?” Pierre demanded. 

“And it is nearly high summer. It is always worst in the winter.” 

Pierre growled in frustration. “What is? Would you please explain yourself!” 

“The deaths. They all happened in the winter! The rashes! The damned nightmares.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Something that Jean told me, once.” 

“Well, damn you, tell me! If you are going to be scared enough to nearly piss yourself, I want to know what it is!”

Suddenly Chenildieu’s mood changed. There was a dry chuckle in the blackness. “No, you don’t. I certainly didn’t.” 

“Tell me, damn you!” 

When Chenildieu picked up, his voice had changed. He had, Pierre supposed, mastered whatever was scaring him because his voice sounded smooth and collected. “As you know, Jean was here nineteen years. His last five years were my first and by then, he had settled down. He was keeping his head down and carving the little animals. During the first twelve or thirteen years, though, he tried to escape more times than I know. Mostly he did not get far. The four times he got out into the city they extended his sentence. The other times, when they caught him with a filed chain or hiding in the harbor, he got flogged, or sent to the dungeon.”

“Go on,” Pierre urged. 

“He told me about a time he was in the dungeon, once, for a month. It was winter. Cold and damp. One night Javert brought him his dinner.” 

“All right...” 

“At the time, Javert was young. He had been a guard just a year or two. Jean was locked down in here and I guess Javert was careless. He came in with Jean’s dinner and fresh water, and without warning, the door slammed shut.” 

“Jean shut it?” 

“No, he swore not. He said that he could not even have reached the door. He said…he said…well, this is where the story gets strange. He said the…the y’noth did it.” 

“The what?” 

“Y’noth. It was Jean’s word. It gave me shivers, the way he said it. It clings in my head, even though I have tried to forget.”

“Y’noth,” Pierre repeated. “Wait! I know that story! I heard it at a carnival, once. I had gone to hear…well never mind that part. Another puppeteer. It is some sort of giant worm that lurks in shadows? I think that was it. It eats children.” 

“Javert, Jean told me, panicked.” 

Pierre laughed. “About made up nonsense from a child’s story? You have got to be shitting me!” 

Chenildieu ignored the interruptions and continued. “Javert banged on the door and called and called, but nothing happened. No one came. Jean sat on the floor near where he was anchored and watched. He said he could see. While the dungeon should have been black, as lightless as is it is now, Jean said a light came into the room.” 

Chenildieu seemed so earnest. Pierre decided to play along. He asked, “From where?” 

“I do not know, that is just what Jean said. Then, he said, the y’noth came.” 

“I thought they were locked in?”

“Stop interrupting! I am telling you what Jean told me! It came and it...it came for Javert…” Chenildieu faded off. 

“It came for Javert.” Pierre replied, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Pierre shook his head in the dark. He knew Chenildieu could not see him, but he could not help himself. “You expect me to believe a…a monster from a child’s story? A giant worm, let’s see, I think it has like tentacles and too many eyes? It appeared from hell and ate Javert?” 

“No,” Chenildieu continued seriously. “He was not eaten. Remember, this was years before I met Jean, and I knew Javert as well. Way too well. No, Jean said it engulfed him. He said Javert fought, but it did no good.” 

Pierre shook his head. “Chenildieu, there has got to be a chamber pot in this hole somewhere, because you are full of crap.” 

Chenildieu laughed softly and there was madness in his laugh. Pierre shivered at the sound. “I told you, you did not want to hear. Should I stop?” 

This story was, Pierre decided, crazy. But good entertainment. The best part was how earnest Chenildieu seemed to be, like he actually believed this nonsense. “Naw, there’s nothing better to do. Go on, tell your crazy tale.” 

“Jean told me that when it was done, it left and the cell was dark again. He said he went over to Javert, who was crumpled in a puddle of slime the thing had left. At the end of his chain, he could just reach Javert.” 

“What’d he do?” Pierre asked, imagining what he might do if he found Vasques or some other guard alone, helpless, lying on the ground. Beat the living crap out of him. Steal his keys. Anything. 

“Jean was not like that, Pierre. Javert was hurt. The thing had bitten him.” 

“He deserved it. They all do.” 

Chenildieu did not reply for several seconds. “If we were out there, in the daylight, I’d be the first to agree with you. But in here? No. I do not think anyone deserves this. The price that thing exacts is too high.”

Pierre felt like he was on a slippery hillside, his footing was giving way. In desperation he asked, “How did Jean know all this?”

“Pierre, I do not expect you to believe this part.” 

“I do not believe any part.” 

“Have it your way. I asked Jean the same thing. He showed me something. He took off his jacket and pushed up his sleeve and held out his arm for me to look at. You know how you have that rash on your arms, and I do too? And so does just about everyone from our end of the salle? You know how that rash is worse in the winter?” 

“Yeah. Some oil from the boats?” 

“No,” Chenildieu replied softly. “Not from the boats.” 

The silence that stretched between them was taunt and tense. 

Pierre snickered in the silence. “You think this demon…”

“I don’t know what I think. I just know what I saw. I know what Jean told me. Jean had no rash. His arms were healthy and clear. Except.”

“Except?” 

“He had a scar, unlike anything I have ever seen. It looked like something had bitten him. Something with a huge mouth and a million tiny teeth that had ripped at his flesh. As I looked at it he said to me, ‘Chenildieu, I’ve spent a lot of time in the dungeon. Do you think I do not know what lives there?’” 

“Right. I think that Jean was pulling your leg. I think he was in some accident before you met him, and he was just having some fun with a folktale.” 

“Suit yourself,” Chenildieu said. 

“I think you are pulling my leg now. You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Jean said the rashes come from the y’noth who roams the salle at night, feeding on our nightmares.” 

“Then why…”

“I don’t know.” 

In the silence that followed, Pierre could hear Chenildieu’s breathing, rapid and shallow. In the darkness, he imagined he could hear the breathing of something else, something immensely large. No, that was just his imagination. “Will you finish?” he asked, suddenly eager to have Chenildieu’s voice fill the silence. 

After a moment, Chenildieu continued. “Once Jean got out of the dungeon, he said he could see the change in Javert. Before, Javert had been hard but not cruel. He never took bribes, nor did he turn his back. When something was going down, he turned up, but often as not, he missed it – you know how it is with the guards. They miss three quarters of what goes on around here. After the dungeon, Javert was there before the scene began. Always. And, Javert got creepy then. With the slimy hands.” 

Pierre laughed but it sounded forced, even to him. “That’s stupid.” 

“Fine,” Chenildieu answered, “Have it your way. You never met Javert. Or Jean either. There was something off about them. Both of them. And it started here. I am telling you!” 

“If you say so,” he replied. And together, they sat in uncomfortable silence in the dark. Pierre found himself peering into the lightless abyss, wondering…but that it was all nonsense of course. 

Eventually, the door was unlocked. They were urged, blinking into the afternoon light. “C’mon,” the guard ordered. “Your turn for questioning.” 

***

It was not until late at night that they were returned to the salle to find that every member of their crew had been isolated in the dungeon and questioned. Together they pieced together what happened. Apparently, Étienne and René had taken advantage of a moment when a guard had been distracted and they had run together. No one knew if they had been recaptured or killed or if maybe they had escaped. 

The next day when they were escorted out to work, they found out. Perched on the back of a cart, positioned so every man housed in the salle would walk past them on their way to work, so weighted down with chains it was unlikely they could have stood, sat Étienne and René, their red hair blazing in the morning sunlight. 

“What happened?” Chenildieu called out as they filed past. 

“Étienne tripped!” René answered. 

“René was going the wrong way!” Étienne called out. 

“Better luck next time!” Jacques said. 

“Silence!” roared a guard. 

Pierre’s anniversary passed. A year in the chain. Watching the new men, he realized that now, he too had taken on the walk of a convict. 

****

**Fall and Winter 1818**

The summer’s heat receded and the days grew shorter. The winter offered some respite from the relentless work. The wake-up bell rang an hour later and they were back in the salle an hour earlier each evening. 

With the extra time, they talked, they diced and they worked on small crafts. Pierre was no exception. He did not have his puppets, nor did he have the heart to create new ones from the scraps he could cobble together, but he was a master of voices. Once dark fell, he would sit on his bed, his back against the wall and tell stories. The end of the salle would grow quiet as men laid still, straining to hear him talk. At first, he stuck to the stories he knew best, the fairy-tales and traditional ballads that had been his lifeblood as a carnie performer but one night he tried out Le Roi’s story of Jean climbing the wall of the salle. When he was done, the silence stretched for several seconds. 

“Damn but that was creepy,” someone said. 

“It’s almost as if Le Roi was telling it himself.” 

“Who are you kidding? Le Roi never told it that good!” 

Sleep was his escape. Over the summer, he had gotten in the habit of, every night before lying down, picking up Jean’s little horse and holding it in his hand for a while. He came to believe that if he did this, he would have a sound night’s sleep. However, as the nights grew longer, his ritual began to fail. At first, he would just wake up exhausted, with itchy, burning arms. He thought of Chenildieu’s crazy theory and wondered about the oils from the boats. The crew had not been on a boat in months. And then, one night Chenildieu shook him awake. 

“Stop thrashing!” he hissed. 

As the nights passed, Chenildieu sometimes woke him up two and three times. As his chain-mate lost patience with him, he went from shaking him to kicking him. 

Another night, he woke when a bowl hit his head and he bolted up. “What the hell!” he growled. 

“Shut up, Pierrot!” Jacques said from across the walkway. “’fore you bring the guards!” 

“You were shouting in your sleep.” Chenildieu growled. “Sounded like utter nonsense.” 

“Fuck off,” Pierre replied. 

As the days grew shorter, he slept less and less. Even if Chenildieu did not kick him into consciousness, at some point in the dark hours, he’d sit bolt upright, waking as he sat, with waves of terror coursing through him. More than anything, he wanted to, he needed to, get up and run. Chained down, there was nowhere to go. Instead he sat on his bed, shaking violently, straining his memory for the dreams. Once he remembered a sense of being engulfed, being held immobile, gripped by coils of velvet-covered steel. Another time, all he remembered was a mouth full of uncountable teeth, gaping open inches from his face. He’d raise his trembling hands to his head, wanting to run his fingers through the shaggy curls that were long gone. Touching the short-cropped fuzz brought him no comfort. 

One night as he brought his hands down from his head, he looked at his arms. His sleeves had fallen back when he had lifted them, and the full moon shown through the window. He could see the angry, red inflamed rash on his arms. It stung and, looking at it in the moonlight, he realized it was oozing some slimy puss. Gingerly, he pulled his sleeves down and curled on his side, still shaking.

Another night, as uncontrollable shudders wracked his body, he suddenly knew he was being watched. Angrily he got to his feet, stalking the three steps the chain allowed, straining at the end of his leash, searching for who it was who was staring at him, laughing at him. Thierry rolled over and swore groggily in his sleep. Pascal kicked at him. Looking down the salle, he saw no evidence that even one of the hundreds of men were awake, besides him. Even the crazy guy who was chained halfway up the room and who sat up rocking and muttering to himself through the night was asleep. He turned to return to his bunk. In the faint traces of moonlight he saw two bloodshot eyes, eyes whose blackness made them feel like he was falling, falling into the wall, staring out at him. 

****

“Pierre, I am worried about you.” 

“I’m fine, Chenildieu.”

“No, you don’t understand. This is what happened to my other chain-mates. The nightmares. Then they stopped eating.”

“I’m not hungry.” 

“You said that yesterday.” 

“Leave me alone, Je-nie-Dieu.” 

“No. You have to eat!” 

“Why? So I can spend the rest of my life chained to you? Digging rocks out of muddy holes? Freezing at night, broiling during the day, all while some worthless guard clobbers the daylights out of me? Is that why I should eat?” 

“You don’t eat, I’ll report you to the guards and they will take you to the hospital and force you.” 

Pierre just looked at Chenildieu. “You wouldn’t dare, you crazy freak. You and your stupid superstitious crap! 

“Crazy? You are calling me crazy? You are the one with the screaming nightmares every night!” 

Pierre growled and took a wild swing. It was not hard for Chenildieu to dodge and grab his hand. “Look at this, Pierre! Look at your arm! The bones are showing!”

Pierre used Chenildieu’s grip against him and pulled them close together, pummeling him with his free hand. Chenildieu tripped under the assault and Pierre followed his chain-mate to the ground, bashing at his face. 

Around them, the crew erupted. Hands grabbed at him and tore him off of Chenildieu. Pascal held him firm while he struggled ineffectively in his grasp. Jacques helped Chenildieu up. When he saw Chenildieu stand, with a bloody nose and an eye that was already swelling shut, he found that the anger was gone, as rapidly as it had come. 

The shrill piercing cry of the guard’s whistles blasted through the air and convicts scrambled out of their way. Pascal let go of him, stepping rapidly back as a guard brought his club in rapid succession into Pierre’s stomach, the back of his knees, his kidneys, dropping him to the ground, his body exploding in pain. 

***

For a brief moment, Pierre stood in the open door of the dungeon and he got a glimpse of the interior. A filthy room with a bucket in a corner, not even a plank for a bed, just bare stone. A large ring was fastened to the wall. A cold chill emanated from the room that would be his home for the next month. A month in the hole for fighting. 

Holding him by the arm, the guard shoved him in, forcing him to the damp ground. The blacksmith followed and with a few, mighty strokes, riveted his chain to the wall. The guard set a jug on the floor. And then, Pierre was alone. The door closed with a crash and the blackness engulfed him. 

Alone for the first time in years, he hugged his knees to his chest. For the last year and a half it was Chenildieu by his side. Before that, it was the chain gang from Calais, and then the months when he was held in the gang cell before, during and after his trial. He supposed the last time he had been alone had been back when he was travelling with the circus, but honestly, those were pretty close quarters and he could not remember when that would have been. 

He ran his hands down his leg to his ankle and found the chain. Link by link, he examined the chain, following it back to the wall. Closing his eyes in the blackness, he concentrated, fingering the rivets, pulling uselessly against the ring. 

Hopeless, he leaned back against the wall and listened to the mice scurry about. After the constant noise of the salle, it was novel to hear something so small. He envied their freedom and in that moment, he would have given anything to trade places. 

He thought of Chenildieu’s ridiculous tale about Jean and Javert. Nonsense, all of it. 

Time in the dungeon took on a surreal quality. Alone in the darkness, he slept as much as he could. When he could not sleep, he did pushups, sit ups, anything to drain the energy from his muscles. He ate when they brought him food. Sometimes it would seem like just minutes passed from one meal to the next; other times he could have sworn they had forgotten him and left him to starve. 

He must have been asleep, because he was jarred awake with the knowledge that _he was not alone._ He jerked upright and called out, “Who’s there?” 

His voice echoed in the empty cell. 

But as his eyes adjusted, he realized it was not exactly dark anymore. The cell was filled with a loathsome, unhealthy light and the creature that was in the cell with him was clearly visible. It took him a moment to realize that the light came from creature itself. He had the impression of huge eyes, many of them, far more than there should be, shot through with red. A hundred of these eyes turned on him, eyes that he instantly recognized as having been watching him through the wall. There was a great gaping mouth, bristling with jagged teeth. He had the impression of flesh that bubbled with pustules. The pustules seemed to dome up, develop a peaked top and then erupt, bursting with a green ochre that dripped down the creature’s sides. He had the impression of a vast size. Its body disappeared into the blackness, as if it had just stuck its head through a door and the rest of it was behind, waiting in the blackness. 

It was hideous and terrible and fascinating, like watching the blood spurt from a fatal wound. He tried to look away and his eyes kept getting pulled back, drawn by the pulsing inevitability, his strength and will sapped by…by its…

He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. I am seeing things, he told himself. It is not real. It is not there. 

_Yesssssss. I am here._

He opened his eyes and it was still there. 

The sound that escaped Pierre’s lips might have been a scream. Suddenly all of the dreams that Chenildieu had woken him from, only to be forgotten immediately, came crashing upon his awareness and he vividly remembered this creature, and its appetite. 

_I have been waiting for you._

As in the dreams, the creature slid forward. More of its body appeared out of the darkness. Segments, like those of a worm, emerged one after another. He scrambled back, trying to get away, for once forgetting the chain until it snapped tight, leaving him trapped between the wall and the thing, unable to slide away. The trail of ooze it left glowed faintly green in the blackness. 

It reached out for him, glistening tentacles erupting from its body. 

_It has been years._

One tentacle found his hand and held it fast. Another slid up his arm and a third coiled around his waist. It brought to mind the feel of the snakes that the circus’s snake charmer had owned, except snakes were smooth and dry and the tentacles left slug-like secretions in their wake. A wave of panic bubbled up from deep inside him. This was not happening! He struggled in its grasp but the tentacles only wound around him tighter. 

_Years since someone has denied me! Such persistence._

It must be a dream! “Chenildieu!” he shouted. “Wake me! Please!” 

It was a dream, one he had had. The velvet covered bands of steel held him fast. Struggle was futile. The tip of one appendage slid his sleeve up to reveal his forearm. The rash on his arm burned as the slimy tentacle slid along the skin. 

_I have a gift for you,_

With a giant toothy smile, the monster looked at him. It opened its mouth wide, poised over his arm and then it seemed to reconsider. Its mouth came up so it was level with his face. For a moment he felt dizzy, looking into that black maw that seemed to connect to the infinite horror of the dark where the unknowables lurked. An instant later, he was snapped back into the now as the mouthful of jagged teeth lunged towards his face and sunk into the skin around his right eye. A tremendous wave of pain came crashing down on him and he thought he heard it add, _but, there is a price._

The scream that came from Pierre’s throat was hardly human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story would not have been possible without the help and feedback of a small army friends.  
> \- PrudencePaccard and Trompe-la-mort are both incredibly generous and brilliant Toulon experts. Pretty much everything I know about that prison comes from their research. I can not thank them enough. Furthermore, PrudencePaccard is writing a story about Chenildieu that has strongly influenced my perception of this character, right down to his commentary about his mis-spelled brand. That is her research that I used. :) 
> 
> \- PrudencePaccard and Trompe-la-mort, were not only consultants on just about everything, they also read the story multiple times at different incarnations, including a truly cludgy partial draft. 
> 
> -Angualupin wrote a fascinating series of essays on tumblr about the effects of chronic stress. Much of Pierre's physiology is drawn from that. 
> 
> \- lucrezianoin and constancecomment beta'ed the completed first draft draft 
> 
> \- bluedog gave it the final spag read. Twice. (She also told me to re-write the whole thing in the first person, but I refused.) 
> 
> Obviously, any mistakes that remain are mine.


	2. Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days and weeks after Pierre leaves solitary, the y'noth makes the terms clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this passage is a thinly veiled, ongoing rape of the POV character ending in a sort of Stockholm syndrome. It is graphic, but there are no detailed descriptions of anatomy.

After his month in the dungeon, one thing was clear to Pierre. There was no way he was going to spend the rest of his life in chains. He was going to be free and he would never return to this place. At least, that is what he told himself. However, he really had very little hope. In the year he had lived in chains, he had heard of no successful escape. Convicts were caught, brought back in chains, or they died in the attempt. 

He was sleeping when they came for him, his wounded face pressed flat against the cool stone floor. The stone made the itching and burning bearable and he spent much of his day like this, curled on his side, his back to the cell. He had learned that he’d rather have his back to that which shared his cell than face it. 

“Time’s up, 32108,” the guard said as he pushed open the door. 

Footsteps came up behind him, the heavy clops of a convict’s wooden shoes. He felt man drop down on one knee behind him and bend to break the rivet. The blacksmith’s hammer strikes were swift and left his ears ringing after the month of near silence he had endured. 

When the rivet had been broken, he rolled over and watched the blacksmith’s feet with his good eye as the other man walked away. Leather shoes. Yellow pants cut short so the shackle would not tangle. No chain. He wondered how it was, to be a prisoner in this hell, to have the tools to escape in your hands and to not use them. “Bastard,” he muttered to no one. 

“On your feet, 32108!” the guard commanded. When Pierre did not move fast enough, the guard grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. His head spun and he had no sooner gotten his balance than the guard was pushing him out the door. A second guard grabbed him and together they half-dragged, half-pushed him along corridor. 

He emerged into the sunlight. The overwhelming glare left him blinded and blinking. He did not realize that he had stopped walking until the guards’ hands tightened on his arms, causing him to loose his balance. As he tripped, his face turned and the guards looked at him for the first time. 

“Ugh!” one of the guards said. “What happened?”

“What the hell?” said the other. 

He recovered his balance, getting his feet back under his body. A bit of a breeze blew, caressing the wound on his face. In the clean sunlight and air, the pain of the festering sore diminished almost immediately. The sudden cessation of pain was an immense relief and for a moment, he almost felt like his feet no longer touched the ground, like he would float away if the guards would just let him go.

But the guard’s hands were everywhere. One of the guards grabbed his chin and twisted his head so he could examine the wound the y’noth had left. As his head was turned, the guard disappeared from his one-eyed view. He did not see the hand when it came up to probe the wound, but he felt the finger poking at the skin. He hissed. 

“Leave off!” he growled as he slapped the guard’s hands away. 

“Hey!” the guard yelled, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back. “Keep your hands to yourself, _bagnard_.” 

Pierre suddenly remembered the rules. The penalty for a prisoner hitting a guard was death. Panicked, his voice came out in a squeak, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

The guard tightened his grip and his fingers went numb. “Shut up!” the guard ordered.

Pierre swallowed and tried to adjust his body so that the tension on his arm would be less. 

“What did you do to yourself?” the guard demanded, absently adjusting his grip as Pierre moved. Nothing he did relieved tearing pain in his shoulder. 

“Nothing,” he replied. 

“Fuckin’ loon gouged his own eye out,” the other guard commented.

“Whatever,” the first one said, releasing his arm. The blood abruptly returned to his fingers in a warm, painful burst. “I once pulled a guy out of the dungeon who had painted himself in his own shit.”

The second guard winced. 

“That does not even touch the corpses I have pulled out over the years. He’s alive. Let the doc figure it out.”

The shove between his shoulder blades propelled him forward and he stumbled onward, dragging the half-chain across the ground with each limping step. 

The guards locked him to a bed in the infirmary and left. Later, the doc came and poked and prodded but by the time he appeared, the skin was healed and shiny with new scar tissue. The seeping pus had disappeared. It no longer hurt or itched. 

The doc asked, “What happened?” 

He just shrugged. 

“Crazy bastard,” the doctor said and moved on to the next guy. 

The next morning, he was taken from the infirmary to blacksmith’s to be coupled to a new chainmate. He sat on the end of a bench with his blind side to the wall and watched nervously as other singles in need of new partners were assembled. None of them were men he knew. One was a pale man with a nervous twitch whom he had seen in the infirmary last night. He guessed that that man was recently out of the dungeon, too. There was an ox of a man who leaned up against the wall, his arms folded, glaring at nothing. There was a green-capped old-timer with a fuzz of grey on his head and deep wrinkles around his yellowed eyes. There were a couple of men who were so non-descript that he wondered if he should worry most about them. 

Every one of them had looked at him and done a double-take. One had whispered to another, “How do you think that happened?” The other had shaken his head. 

Perhaps it was good if they thought him crazy. Perhaps he could work with that. 

***

His new partner was the ox. He stood next to the man as the blacksmith was joining their chains and wondered how this was going to unfold. He knew now how lucky he had been to get Chenildieu as his first chainmate. He had no intention of being the punk in any pairing. However, they were unmatched in every way. The other man was at least ten years his senior and his shear bulk made Pierre sure that his new partner could break him like a twig. 

Suddenly he realized that his new bunk would almost certainly not be an end spot again, and he would be stuck lying between this goon and some other stranger. 

Oh. God. 

When the blacksmith was done and the three new pairs were being walked to the salle, the ox spoke. “What’s your name?” 

“Pierre. Yours?” 

“Frances.” 

“What happened to your last chainmate?” 

Frances shrugged. “He was released. You?” 

“Donno. We were split when I was sent to the dungeon.”

“What for?” 

“Fighting.” 

Frances laughed, a deep echoing laugh. “A wisp of a thing like you?”

Pierre shrugged. “Je-nie-Dieu had it coming.”

Pierre was having trouble walking. In the day since he had been released from the dungeon, he had been walked from place to place, a guard’s hand on his arm. Now, he found himself listing towards his chained leg, drifting towards his new chainmate. 

Abruptly, Frances stopped. Because Pierre’s blind eye was on the chained side, Pierre did not see him stop in time and he collided with the much larger man. “Ooof.”

Frances grabbed hold of Pierre’s shoulders in an iron grip. “Let’s get something straight, kid.” 

Pierre squirmed in the grasp but he could not break free. 

The guard growled at them. “Move on!” 

Frances let go and started walking. When Pierre did not move fast enough, Francs jerked the chain making him stumble. 

Pierre understood that he had lost any chance at control. This marriage was going to be different than his time with Chenildieu. He tripped again, stumbling under his feet and he struggled to catch up. He found himself missing his old partner. 

Frances put an arm over his shoulder. Perhaps it looked friendly, but Pierre felt the menace radiating off the older, larger man. “Kid,” he said. “if you can’t walk, we are going to have a problem.” 

“I can walk! It’s just hard to see.” 

“What happened to your eye?”

Pierre shook his head. “You would not believe me if I told you.” 

*****

For days, they had been carrying lumber and tar to the drydock as a new ship began to take shape. Pierre stumbled through the day, struggling to keep up. Under the best of circumstances, he was not very strong. After a month in the dungeon, now half blinded, he felt like he was dying. He was so miserable, so beyond hope, he did not even noticed the change.

It was early morning when he realized. The sun was coming up and it was glaring directly into his eye. Pierre blindly trudged along, relying on the other end of the bundle of planks that he carried with Frances to guide his feet. He took a step and something caught his foot. 

He fell forward, sprawling to the ground, rolling into the shadows of a building on the side of the road. The planks fell with a clatter, scattering.

“God damnit, Pierre!!!” Frances shouted. 

Two guards came running, clubs upraised. 

_Pull!!!_ the y’noth commanded in his mind. 

What the hell did that mean? He reached out and grasped. He did not know what he was pulling on, but it came easily. The guards’ clubs came raining down. 

He cringed, but not one blow hit him. He curled into a ball and watched as Frances hunched his shoulders and protected his face. 

The guards gave Frances one final blow, and then growled, “Get moving, you bastard!”

Frances bent to pick up the fallen wood, throwing a look of pure hatred at Pierre, but the look turned from hatred to puzzlement. He bent to retrieve the wood. 

_Let go. Now._ the y’noth ordered. 

His hands were clenched and he let them relax. Suddenly, he felt exposed. Frances met his eyes and shook his head. “What the hell, Pierre?”

Pierre shook his head. 

“Pick up the damned wood,” Frances said, “before they come back.” 

Pierre got to his feet, retrieving the lumber. 

That night, Frances said to him, “What happened out there today?” 

Pierre shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“You were out there, lagging like a great lazy oaf. Tripping over your own feet.” 

“It was hard to see. The sun was in my eye.”

“You dropped that load, not me.” 

Pierre nodded. “I expect so.” 

“The guards beat me.” 

Pierre nodded again. 

“I looked for you. For a moment, I swore you were not there.”

What did that mean? Pierre shook his head and then lifted up his chained leg. “Still here.” He managed. 

A week later, there had been three other incidents where Pierre was at fault and had stood by while Frances had been beaten. Each time the y’noth had spoken to him, instructed him. He had reached out with something that was not his hands and grabbed at something that he pulled over himself like a cloak. He would lie still until the guard left. 

After the second time, Frances had later tripped Pierre and sent him flying. After the third time, he had pounded his fist into Pierre’s stomach, leaving him doubled over in pain. 

The fourth time, he tried to do it for himself

It was broad daylight, high noon. It was hot and they had been working for hours. Frances was flagging and they were falling behind the rest of the crew. Frances growled at him to hurry up. 

The guard came up. As he had before, Pierre reached out and grabbed. This time, though, his hands came back empty. When the guard came the blows rained down on his shoulders. 

He tried again and a few days later and his hands closed around … around … around the shadows. He realized. He wrapped the shadow tightly around his body, envisioning a blanket as he did so. 

The beating Frances gave him that night was the worse one yet. 

***

He knew he was dreaming. 

He was walking across a blackened field. A great fire had purged the landscape leaving the charred remains of a once great forest. Charcoal crunched under his feet. The smell of sulfur clung to his nostrils. Only a few, twisted sickly plants grew, sticking yellowing wilted leaves up through the rubble. He crouched down to touch one and a tentacle erupted from its base and slapped his finger, leaving a red, stinging welt. 

He snatched his hand back and stood, walking on. 

He walked freely. His foot swung forward without the weight of the chain. 

The sun was setting behind him, igniting the sky with angry reds and oranges. He cast a long shadow over the uneven ground. It was second nature now to reach out to the shadow and gather it, like a cloak around his shoulders. 

_Gooooooood._ the y’noth said. 

He spun around. There was the monster, emerging from the shadows. Seeing it here in the burning light of the setting sun, he could make out colors he had not seen before. Green and brown patterns shifted and flowed down its body in violent waves that made his stomach roll like the one time the circus had taken a voyage by sea. The pustules that bubbled up along its skin were initially pink, but they took on a greenish hue before erupting and spraying their stinking, slimy ooze into the air.

He took another step and he came up short, his foot snapped back by a shackle that had appeared around his ankle. He looked down. A few links of the chain were visible before it disappeared into the ground. He had once seen a tree that had grown up around a fence - the chain had been embedded and incorporated into the flesh of the wood, a lumpy and deformed mass of scar tissue. The spot where the chain entered the earth was like that. 

There was a noise and he looked up. The y’noth was advancing on him and he backed up, as far as the chain would allow. Reaching the end he tugged on it, panic welling up inside him as the monster’s tentacles reached for him. He anticipated the pain, that was not so bad, but when he thought of the way they would slide over his skin, the way he would be impotent it its grasp, utterly unable to fight back. He shivered and pulled harder. 

_The chainnnnnn. You would beeee ffffffree?_

Pierre stopped moving and looked up sharply. 

_I assssk you. You would beeeee ffffffree?_

“It is impossible. I am a lifer.” 

_It issssss not. Sssstand sssstilll._

The chain was gone. The monster’s tentacles reached out. He pulled away and took a step back. 

The monster growled, a menacing rumble that shook the ground. _Sssstand sssstill! Ifff you would be fffffreee, it is necessssary you ssssssubmit._

The tentacles reached for him again. He clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt and willed himself to stand still. Every nerve in his body shouted at him to flee, to run, to scream, to thrash about. But he didn’t. He stood rooted in place, telling himself, over and over again, “free, free, free”. 

_Good,_ the monster praised as the tentacle slid down the center of his chest. 

It was different this time. Before, when the monster had taken his eye, the tentacles had held him immobilized. This time, they just touched. They slid along his arm without wrapping around it. They found his brand and ran over the smooth skin that had grown over the burn. They stroked his chest and throat. 

It was everything he had to stand still, to root his feet to the ground and let the monster touch him. His stomach rolled and he struggled not to gag on its fetid breath. His limbs trembled and threatened to not hold his weight. 

_It is enoughfffff ffffffor now,_ the y’noth said as its tentacles withdrew.

Abruptly Pierre awoke, sandwiched between Frances and the man on the other side. Frances growled, “Hold his wrists,” and the other man pinned him down. Frances hissed in his face, his breath rotten, “Be silent, scum.” He pulled Pierre’s pants from his hips. Pierre was not sure if what followed was a dream or real. 

The next day he walked in a daze. He felt hot, not like he was sick, but like he was on fire. Everywhere the y’noth had touched tingled and burned. 

The following night, the dream came again. Again, the y’noth said to him 

_I assssk you. You would be ffffffreeeeeee?_

And Pierre replied, “Of course.” 

When it reached for him, he was able to master his reactions a bit better. He did not pull away. He did not tremble. At least, he told himself, not as much. And when the y’noth’s touch gave way to Frances pinning him roughly to the bed so the other man could probe and thrust, he closed his eyes and told himself that he would be free. That it was necessary. 

After the third or fourth night, the monster said to him, _You doooo wellll. I wasssss wise to wait for you._

Pierre, who was using all he had to fight down the revulsion he felt at the monster’s touch, said, “I do not understand.” 

The monster wrapped a tentacle around his waist and pulled him forward, twisting him around so he looked away. _Wake up,_ the y’noth told him…and he was sitting on his wooden bed, bathed in the dim light of the moon streaming through the tiny windows. He looked up and down the salle, and there, about a dozen beds further down the row, the y’noth towered over the sleeping prisoners. It seemed like hundreds of tentacles reached out, wrapped around one man’s arm, another man’s leg, another’s neck. The tentacles pulsed as glimmering surges of energy migrated up from their tips to its body, soaking into its immense mass. Before his eyes, the y’noth seemed to grow bigger, to inflate. The pustules on its skin faded and the monster glowed, radiating power in stomach-twisting waves. 

_Frommmmm themmmm, I take. Frommmm you, I take,_ the monster tapped the end of a tentacle on a prisoner’s eye. As he watched, a red welt formed under the y’noth’s touch, swelling the sleeping man’s eye into a puckered mound. _Nnnnno more._

Looking down at his hands, Pierre realized, he had no rash, anywhere. He remembered Chenildieu’s arms. Jack, Chenildieu had said, had not had a rash either.

On the sixth night, the monster touched his face. The tentacles slid up his neck, caressing his throat and the tender skin under his jaw where his lifeblood ran so close to the surface. Then the tentacle slid over his chin and stroked his cheeks, catching on his lips. 

He could pull away at any time, he knew this. All it would take was a step back and the monster would stop. However, then he would never have his freedom. He clenched his teeth and stood his ground. The tentacle touched the scarred mark it had left on his face when it had gouged his eye out. Pierre felt it pry open the eyelid using just the tip of the tentacle. It didn’t hurt, not nearly so much as what came later. 

Nights of submitting to the monsters’ touches gave way to weeks. He lost track of time, one nightmare running into another until he found that he had mastered the horror of the creature’s touch. Out on the chain, during the day, he often found himself thinking of these strange dreams, wondering if they were real or just the result of the abuse that Frances and the other members of his crew were heaping upon him. At night, standing in the nightmare land, he knew exactly what was real and what was the dream. 

One night with no preamble the y’noth said, _You arrrrrre rrrrrrrrrready._

“Ready? For what?” 

_Turn around. Kneel._

Pierre complied. It was much harder turning his back on the monster than he had thought it would be, but the one thing that years in the chain and now months of these strange dreams had taught him was obedience. As he got down on his knees, he felt the tentacles on his back, sliding up his spine. _Thisssss is my price,_ the monster said as it gently pressed on each of the bones in his neck, testing them, _for the shadows._

“I thought you had taken your price,” Pierre said, touching the empty socket where his eye had once been. 

_Nnnnnnno,_ said the monster. _Therrrrrrre isssss morrrrrre_

“What?” asked Pierre.

 _Thisssssss will feellllll difffferent._

The tentacle found the right spot and pressed hard on a bone at the base of his skull. Suddenly there was a great pressure inside his head, a vastness forced into a space far too small. His skull suddenly felt three sizes too small for his mind. An awareness of things too vast, too alien, too horrible to understand opened like a diseased flower. 

_Open your eyessssss._

He had not realized they were shut. He opened them. Somehow, the y’noth was in front of him. It looked different now. More defined. Different colors. He realized he was seeing out of both eyes. 

_Yessssss. I sssseeee with your eyessss. It is compleeeete._

Pierre reached out a hand to touch his master with wonder. All the times he had been touched by the creature – the early times when he had been forced and more recently, when he had learned to submit– he had never once reached out to touch it. He did so now, touching a patch of green that rippled to brown, changing from cool to warm under his touch. 

The sound the monster made was unlike anything he had heard it make before. Like cat, it let out a soft thrumming sound and the skin vibrated under Pierre’s hand. 

_Ssssssleep now,_ it said. 

His awareness faded to a deep, dreamless sleep. 

***

Sawing the chain turned out to be the hardest part. One night after Frances was done with him, he gathered the shadows around himself in a thick cloak. It took longer than he had hoped to saw the chain. It took longer than he feared. Every hour or so a guard walked through the salle, but with the shadows gathered around his body, the guard did not notice him. 

In the colorless twilight before the sun came up, he felt the shackle finally give way. It came loose in his hand. He set the end of the chain down gently on the floor and closed his eyes. Concentrating for a moment, he called the y’noth. _Master?_

The immense presence filled him. When he opened his eyes, he saw through the y’noth’s eyes and the world was full of color. Superimposed on the familiar scene, grey in the dim pre-dawn light, the prisoners had auras the color of mustard or the yellowy green of dying grass. Strewn across their bodies was the shimmering telltale marks the y’noth left, the persistent burning rashes on their arms as it fed on their misery. Self-consciously, he tugged his sleeves down over his arms. His master no longer used him that way. He was more valuable as the master’s eyes. 

Wrapped in shadows he crept through the salle, leaving Frances behind without a second glance. The guard snoozing by the door grumbled as his passage stirred the air. He opened his eyes and Pierre froze. After a few minutes, the guard settled back into sleep. _Good,_ said the y’noth in his mind as Pierre moved on.


	3. Errand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The puppeteer is sent to find that which escaped the y'noth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [20thcenturyvole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/pseuds/20thcenturyvole) drew some amazing art for this chapter and the next. They are embedded, but please also go [check out the art post.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11707866) :)

**Paris, October 1822**

_Find himmmmmm._

Pierre Legrande, though he was not using that name anymore, sat bolt upright in the bed. The covers were tangled around his torso and he tore at them. The restraint, even of the sheets, was too much. 

With a sobbing cry, he wrestled the covers free. As the cold air wrapped around his body, goosebumps erupted on his chest and down his arms. He took deep breaths, sucking in the air. 

He raised his hands to his head. At first, his touch was hesitant, unsure what he would find, but when he touched the curls there, as he let them run through his fingers, his breathing slowed. He wrapped his arms around his knees and silent sobs wracked his frame. 

Behind him, the warm hands of his lover slid up his back, pausing over the smooth skin of the brand on his shoulder before wrapping around him from behind. Babet’s hands touched his chest, toying with the fuzz of hair that was finally growing there. In time, the sobs stopped and his lover spoke into his ear.

“A dream?” 

Babet’s lean frame, hard and angular, pressed against his back. He leaned into it, relaxing in the embrace. 

He shook his head. “No,” he whispered. 

“Then…” 

With a sigh, he pulled loose from Babet’s arms. “ A message.” 

Babet took his chin and turned his head so they looked eye to eye. He met Babet’s gaze, twisting his head slightly so he could meet his gaze. He appreciated that Babet did not flinch when he looked into his scarred face, the gouged out eye socket. 

“I have to go.” 

Babet nodded. 

“I am going to need papers.”

Babet leaned forward and pressed his lips onto his. The kiss lingered for a moment. “I’ll make them,” he whispered. He wrapped the younger man in his arms. Cheek to cheek, each man’s face was rough with a day’s growth of beard. “Just come back to me, Julian,” Babet said huskily. “You’re the best buster there ever was. ” 

****

A week later, he was on his way. It had been a horrible week. Night after night he had jerked awake, shaking with terror when the y’noth had invaded his dreams. Sleep deprived and on the edge of panic, he had been increasingly ill-tempered. Babet had been patient with Julian, as Pierre was now known, until he had no patience left. Then Babet had driven him from the house so Babet could finish creating the forged papers he would need. 

He had wanted to finish a big heist he had been planning before he left, but the y’noth’s nightly interruptions made it impossible to concentrate. Instead, he had spent a few days on the street, picking pockets. 

Finally, the papers had been completed. Earlier, with the sun only lightening the sky to the east, he had stood in front of a glass and adjusted the hood on his cloak. It hid the damage to his face, and it hid his legs so his limp from the years on the chain was less noticeable. 

He had carefully stashed his belongings about his person. He had tucked several small purses, each with a few days worth of coin, in various places on his clothes. A knife and the wallet that contained the forged passport that Babet had made for him had followed. Finally, he had tucked a tiny packet of silk inside his shirt. Inside was the tiny stone horse carved by Jean the Jack that Chenildieu had given him, long ago. 

He had turned to Babet, who was still in bed, watching him prepare. “You going to be okay?” he had asked. 

For a moment, Babet had stared at him. The stare had become a smirk that had muffled laughter. Finally the laughter had broken loose. He had stood there, watching Babet laugh, until finally, he had laughed too. It had come out manic and desperate. 

Walking east into the morning sun, his hood pushed back so he could feel the sun that the y’noth abhorred on his face, he resolved to finish this business quickly. 

**Montreuil-sur-Mer, January 1823**

As Julian finished his tale, the half a dozen or so men still in the inn’s common room gathered their coats and stood to leave. He sat in the corner with the fire to his back and the room’s shadows seemed to wrap around him. 

Several men dropped a few coins in the hat on their way out the door. A grizzled looking laborer paused before dropping his coins in. “You tell a good tale, boy. Are you going to be back tomorrow?” 

Julian shrugged. “Probably, sir. Can’t say I rightly know.”

The man nodded as he flipped a coin into the hat. “Hope you are. I’ll bring a friend.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Julian stretched, feeling his back crack after sitting still for so long, and his foot bumped the hat at his feet. He reached down to pick it up and with some surprise, he realized how heavy it was. A fair take, tonight. One of his best yet. He had heard that this town had riches. He hoped that he’d be allowed to stay another few days. 

As the last man went out the door, the innkeeper came over and put glasses of wine down in front of him. He pulled up a chair and took up one of the glasses for himself. 

“You spin a fine yarn, boy. Sold half again as much fare as I would normally. They stayed to hear your bit.” 

Julian nodded as he picked up the drink. “Thank you for the drink. I was running dry.”

“Least I can do.” 

They sat in companionable silence as the fire crackled at his back. Julian studied the man. He was in his sixties. His hair had gone steely gray and he had a pleasant, friendly face. His hands were worn and swollen with arthritis, but he seemed to get around the inn well enough. Julian had seen his wife in the kitchen and there had been a girl serving the room earlier that could only have been his daughter. 

Their eyes met and Julian realized he was being studied in returned. He looked down but under the direct scrutiny, the shadows shrunk back and he felt naked, exposed. 

“Will you stay another night or two?” 

Julian shrugged. “Will you have me?” 

The old man smiled. “You are good for business. I would be glad to give you room and board for a few days, in exchange for some tales. What’d you say your name was?” 

“Julian.” 

The man extended his hand. It was dry and hot and boney when Julian took it. “Call me Frances.”

Frances held his hand for a second longer than was normal as his smile froze on his face. “Julian. From Arras, you know what my favorite thing in Arras is?”

When Julian had arrived in town, he had shown his papers to the innkeeper as he had done at every town he had waylaid in over the past few months. Babet’s forgeries were good and they had been handed back to him without a comment. They proclaimed him to be Julian Dreux, from Arras. He was not from Arras, but he had known it well enough to make small talk. By the time he arrived here, this alias had held for three solid months and his reputation as the one-eyed iterant storyteller had preceded him into a town. 

“I know what my favorite thing is,” Julian said. “Pierre’s, down by the river. “ 

Frances grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Resting place of the loveliest green fairy to be found north of the Seine.” 

Julian frowned at Frances. “I was going to say, best brioche to be found outside of Paris.” 

Frances’s grin widened and he swung a hand around and clapped Julian on the shoulder. “Where’d you do your time, son?” 

A wave of panic washed over Julian and he started to rise, to yank his hand back and pull the shadows tight around his body. The man was gentle when he reached out and touched his other arm. “Easy, kid. Don’t run. Not now. You’ll attract the eye of the inspector. Sit.”

Slowly he lowered himself back into the seat and released the shadows. 

“I am guessing you did your bid Toulon. Is that right? I was at Brest for five years, back during the Terror.” 

After a moment, Julian regained his voice, “What gave me away?” 

The old con laughed quietly, “You limp. But it’s more than that. Your face. The way you seem to disappear into the shadows. Toulon…well, there are stories. I never believed them, until tonight but…” He shrugged. 

Julian buried his face in his drink. “You going to turn me in?”

Frances smiled, “Now why would I do that? You are going to make me a pretty penny tomorrow, once all my regulars go tell their friends about you.” 

“I see.” 

“We have a deal?”

“Don’t see that I have much of a choice.” 

The old man smiled as he stood, “Well, Julian from Arras, I don’t see you have much of a choice either. I will see you in the morning.” He raised a finger in warning, “Just two words of advice. Stay straight. You do not want to tangle with the police in this town. And stay clear of my daughter.”

****

Truth be told, the innkeeper’s daughter was the last thing on Julian’s mind. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but night was for hunting. Frances had left him with a sack of hay and a blanket. Julian waited an hour, and then he took a pair of lightweight boots that were nearly slippers from his pack. He pulled off his heavy travelling boots and laced up the slippers. During the dark small hours, he crept out onto the streets. 

As luck would have it, the moon had set. He gathered the shadows around him like a cloak and made his way through the streets. He did not know what he was looking for, but he trusted he would know it when he saw it. 

A year ago, he had begun to make a name for himself in Paris. Well, not exactly a name. No one knew who he was. No one knew his face, but they knew he was there. One by one, choice prizes others had deemed unstealable, had quietly walked off, only to reappear on the black market for those who knew where to look for such rarities. The underworld of Paris wondered who was having such success. It had taken him weeks to identify the emotion that this success had brought him. He had never thought he would be happy again. 

Montreuil-sur-Mer was an unusual town. Oddly well off, but not extravagant. Despite the obvious wealth waiting for the taking, he did not stalk its streets looking for riches. No. The y’noth was single minded and did not tolerate his freelancing on the side. He was looking for a man. A man whose visage his master has burned into his mind. The man’s head was shaved in the manner of a convict, short, but with sections along the side shaved to the skin. His beard was unkempt and long. His skin was burnt the deep reddish brown shade of a laborer. But what captured Julian were the eyes. The eyes on this man were sunken and they burned with an intensity that both frightened and captured Julian. _Find him_ , those were his orders. 

He did not know who this man was. He did not know why the y’noth could not find him for itself. He had no doubts about his fate should he fail to find this man for his master. Once, shortly after his escape, he had tried to defy the y’noth’s grip. He would not be doing it again.

Alas, he had dallied in the inn too long. The streets were empty. Even the hookers had disappeared. He, too, was about to give up and go back to his bed when something caught his eye. Down the street, a furtive figure disappeared around a corner. Lightly, careful to not make a sound, he ran down the street in time to see the man turn another corner. With his cloak of shadows wrapped tightly around him, he pursued the man until he turned a corner and found himself alone on the street. With a sigh, he came to a stop. 

He was in a completely different neighborhood. Solid looking houses with tiny kitchen gardens flanked a recently swept street. There was nothing for him, here. 

Wearily, he relaxed his hold on the shadows and turned around, trying to retrace his steps to the inn. He must have been more tired than he knew, because suddenly he found himself face to face with a man. He only got a glimpse: a large Roman nose, sideburns that came down to his jaw. Instinctively, he stepped back, grasping at the shadows.

“Pardon!” the man exclaimed. 

Julian held still, frozen in place. His blind eye was mostly towards the man and he did not dare turn his head, lest he give himself away. Across the bridge of his nose, in the dim light, he could make out a top hat. 

The man looked one way up the street, the other way, and then right at Julian. Julian did not even dare to breath. 

Then the man shook his head. “Is there anyone there?” 

Julian’s jaw hurt with the effort of keeping the shadows close to his body. 

Finally, the man shook his head. “Odd!” he exclaimed to no one in particular and he walked off down the street. 

Julian waited until the footsteps had faded from audibility before he relaxed and slumped back against the wall with a gasp. 

When he finally made it to his bed, he did not sleep well at all. 

***

Julian woke as the sun streamed through the window. Every morning for the past week, he had been surprised that the y’noth had not woken him in the night and demanded he move on. Perhaps tonight the message would come. 

Last night, he had been at his usual place, by the side of the fireplace, as Frances’s clientele came and drank. He had settled into a routine where he would tell a story for a bit, and then take a few minutes off. When it seemed that the custom was perhaps stirring to go, or someone called for him to continue, he would take up another story. 

During the breaks, he sat quietly in the shadows and listened. He learned that the town had a mayor named Madeleine who was well liked by many and barely tolerated by others. Madeleine was a factory owner, it seemed. Most of the people who came to Frances’s tavern were single men, widowers and bachelors, of middling age who worked for Madeleine one way or another. Some worked for him directly, laboring on the factory floor, while others worked as carters who supplied the factory or as workmen on the many construction projects Madeleine sponsored – the factory, itself, a hospital, a school. 

There were also those who were suspicious. A grizzled old veteran by the name of Fauchelevent was one of the most ardent detractors. Fauchelevent was often found at a table in the corner, grumbling into his cups about something Madeleine was said to have done. 

One way or another, it seemed to Julian that Madeleine’s largess was the reason that Julian had the fattest purse of honest-earned coin he had ever had in his life. 

Mostly the tavern was a friendly place, but last night, things had erupted. He had been sitting in the corner quietly putting away a bowl of stew when the tension had risen in the room. Across the room, two men – neither of whom he knew – were standing. One shouted at the other, pulling a knife. There had been a gasp and people had stepped back. There was a flash, and someone cried out. As everyone surged backwards, a figure appeared in the room, though Julian could not remember having seen him before that moment. His back was to Julian and all Julian could see was his long black coat and the end of the truncheon he carried. 

“Monsieur Martin, put the knife down,” the man ordered. His voice was hard. It was the kind that was used to giving orders and being obeyed. The tone was unmistakable. It could only be the voice of a cop. 

Martin kept glaring at his opponent who was now bleeding from a long, shallow cut on his cheek. The opponent looked between Martin and the cop, back and forth, indecisive. 

“Monsieur Laurent, get back.” The cop ordered. 

Watching with just one eye, Julian was not clear what happened next, it happened so fast. Less than a second later, the knife clattered to the ground and the man who had been holding it was pinned facing the wall by the cop’s club. His face was turned sideways so Julian could see the look on his face. The cop was using his free hand to roughly search the man. 

Julian watched, impassive, his eyes narrowed. He had been in that position and worse. It was unpleasant. It was invasive. It stripped what dignity one had left away. But there was no reason for the look that was on the man’s face. Martin’s eyes were wide, his mouth was taunt, frozen open in what looked like a scream, but no sound came from his mouth. Julian could not fathom what would make that look of horror come on someone’s face, in that moment. Defiance or anger or resignation he could understand. But terror? 

Moments later, the cop was marching the man out of the room. Quickly, the talk resumed. Laurent’s friends were seeing to his cut. Fauchelevent was sitting alone and Julian scooted his stool over. 

“What just happened?” he asked. 

The old man snorted into his cup. “Inspector Javert happened,” he said. 

Javert. Julian felt the blood drain from his face. He remembered Chenildieu’s story. Could it possibly be the same man?

Fauchelevent continued, his eyes on the door. “Javert does that to people. Though, usually not ‘til he touches you, or so I’s been told.” 

Julian thought of Pascal. _”His hands are like snails.”_

Fauchelevent turned back to him. “Are you all right?”

Julian shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he told Fauchelevent. “I thought I recognized the name, but no. It’s Laverre I thought you said the name was. I once ran afoul of him.” Julian looked down, bringing a blush to his cheeks, “He was none to pleased about me and his daughter.” 

Fauchelevent laughed, raising his glass. “Ha!” 

***

In the hours after the inn closed, he again crept out into the night. He was even more cautious, now. Could it be Toulon’s Javert really be here? As a police inspector? The man he had seen in the inn, the same man he had seen on the street last night, seemed to match the description he had heard. Tall, intimidating, and with hands that did not seem natural. 

He thought over Chenildieu’s tale of how the guard had been taken by the y’noth. Thoughtfully, as he rubbed the ragged scar on his face, he wondered what his master had taken from Javert, and what he had been given. 

He headed back towards the spot where he caught a glimpse of the figure retreating from him but all was quiet. He stood with his back to a building, tucked in a corner where front stairs led up to the door and waited. 

It was nearly an hour before anything happened. There was a tremendous crash and he jerked awake, not realizing that he had dozed off. The crash was so jarring, so loud, he expected to see doors slam open up and down the street. He expected neighbors to emerge and look at what was going on, but the street was quiet. There was another ear splitting crash, and still no reaction from the street. Cautiously, he stepped out from his protected corner. 

In a room two houses up and across the street, he could see in a window. Something was happening. There was a light inside the house, an eerie greenish light that was instantly familiar. He had seen that light in his dreams, and when he had been chained to the floor of the dungeon. Against the curtain, he could make out the shape of a man, and the shape of something that was not at all human. The man stood, defiant, his hands raised, and he shouted in some language that was guttural and discordant and completely unfamiliar to Julian’s ear. 

As he watched, the man stepped forward, growling at the monster in this horrible speech, this language that slithered from the darkest depths of crevasses that had never once seen the light of the sun. To his complete astonishment, the monster moved back. 

He squeezed his good eye shut and then opening it slowly. As he opened the lid, he had a dizzying sense of vertigo. The depth perception that he had learned to live without returned, but his vision oddly distorted. He saw with the y’noth’s eyes. A black aura surrounded the man’s silhouette against the shadow. 

Step by arduous step, syllable by awful syllable, the man drove the monster back until it was pinned to the wall. With one triumphant cry from the man, and one soulbreaking howl from the monster, the light went from the room. Julian was left standing in the blackness of the street’s shadows. Despite this, he could still make out the shape of the man from the black fringe that outlined his body. 

Inside the house, the man collapsed into a chair when the monster disappeared. In his mind, he heard his master’s voice. _Remarkable. Show me more._ Without out thinking about what he was doing, he stepped forward, letting go of his hold on the shadows. 

The man looked right at Julian. Too late, Julian realized he had let go of the shadows. His master hissed, _Yesssssss. That is himmmm._

Abruptly the vision through his blind eye was gone, as was the aura. Reeling, his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. 

****

It was the headache that woke him, a throbbing ache that emanated from the space where his right eye used to be. With a groan, he rolled onto his back and opened his good eye. 

Candlelight lit the space. Overhead were coarse beams. He frowned. He last remembered being on the street, in the open. 

Carefully so as to not send his head reeling, he sat up, testing his ankles and wrists. No chains bound him. He looked around the room. The room was spacious and barren, with coarse stone walls. There was a bookcase stacked with books and a cluttered desk set off to one side. On another wall a worn _prei dieu_ , was situated in front of a small altar bearing a simple crucifix and a pair of candlesticks. Otherwise the room was unadorned. 

A few feet away sat the man he had seen on the street. The man was sitting on the smooth stone floor, one leg pulled up but the other left half extended in a familiar posture. He remembered La Roi and Etienne sitting exactly like that, their legs positioned to accommodate the chain. 

Suddenly, he realized he was sitting the same way. He consciously adjusted his posture so he sat cross-legged. 

The man smirked. “How do you feel?” he asked quietly. 

“What did you do to me? My head…”

“This is…”, the man pointed upward, “consecrated ground. The altar is directly over your head. It contains a relic from St. Dominic.” 

Julian looked around, noticing chalk markings on the floor. He realized he was sitting in the center of an enormous cross, larger than a man, drawn on the floor. He reached out to touch the chalk markings but abruptly his finger met an invisible barrier. Frowning, he pressed his hand against an invisible wall. 

He slid his hand along the barrier. It was smooth to the touch and unyielding, like silk over stone. It was neither warm nor cold. He continued to run his hand along the barrier, tracing out its shape. It enclosed the entire inside of the cross chalked on the floor. 

“St. Dominic?” he asked, turning back to the man. 

“St. Dominic,” the man continued, “does not abide by the y’noth.”

Julian jerked. He stared at the man. The image the y’noth had shown him was of a desperate brute, unrepentant and seething, bowed by the weight of the years. This man was clean and well groomed. He spoke French with a cultured accent, that was at odds with the stomach twisting curses he had thrown an the monster before. There was something about this man, something that he could not see anymore. He had seen it before, when he was looking with the y’noth’s eyes. “You _are_ him,” he said after a moment. “The one I was sent to find.”

The man looked away, staring across the room in the direction of the small alter, and then looked back at him. “I expect so.”

Julian only knew of two others that the master had claimed. This man was clearly not Javert. “You’re Jean,” he said abruptly. “Jean-le-Cric.” 

The man met his gaze. “It’s been a long time since I have heard that name.” 

“I’ve heard stories about you.” 

“You have?” 

“I was married to Chenildieu. Before…” Julian gestured at his eye. 

“Ah.”

“Chenildieu, Le Roi, Etienne. They talked about you all of the time.”

“How flattering.” 

“I did not believe them.” 

“Why should you? Le Roi’s lies drip off him like sweat.” Jean stood and walked to the edge of the cross. “Who are you?” 

Julian looked at his captor. Jean was slightly taller than he was, with broader shoulders. “I’m a con, like you.”

“Not like me,” Jean said. “I was released.” 

“Well, you tried to escape,” Julian said. “A lot. I heard the stories.” 

Jean stood and started to turn away. 

“Are you going to turn me in?” Julian asked.

“To the police?” Jean laughed, a short bitter bark. 

“Who else?” Julian asked.

Jean glanced at the crucifix on the wall and then turned back to him “No,” Jean said. “What about you? Are you going to turn me in?” 

Julian looked at Jean. “You were released,” Julian said. “Why would the police care about you?” 

“I tore up my yellow papers years ago.” 

“Oh,” Julian said. He shrugged. “I have no love for the law. I’d never turn you in to the cops. The master sent me after you. My job is done.” 

Jean started to turn away again. Julian thought he was about to leave. “Are you going to leave me in here?” 

Jean turned back. “Who are you?” he asked again. 

Julian reached out his hands to either side. His hands touched the invisible barrier on both sides. He pressed his hands outwards against the barrier. It did not yield. “Let me go,” he demanded. 

“Thou shalt have no god before me,” Jean said. “St. Dominic does not abide by false gods.” 

“St. Dominic, St. Dominic. I am not talking to him. I am talking to you. Let me out of here.” 

Jean shook his head. “Start by answering my question,” he said. 

Julian looked up at the ceiling. The great beams that he now realized supported the floor of the cathedral, stretched overhead. He remembered working in the lumberyard in Toulon, hauling the trunks of huge trees into place to shape into the keels of the warships. After a moment, he said, “Pierre Lagrande was the name I was convicted under. Julian Dreux is what’s on my papers now.” 

“But who are you?”

Exasperated, Julian threw up his hands and turned away. “What do you want from me? I was a carney. I made puppets and told stories. I called myself Claquesous on stage.” 

“Keep going,” Jean said. 

“What else is there to say?” 

“Keep going, “ Jean urged. 

“What? I was a thief. A liar. A con man.” 

“Who are you now?” 

Julian shrugged. “I haven’t made puppets since I was arrested, or travelled with a carnival, but I still tell stories. I am still a thief.” 

“What landed you in solitary?” 

“Fighting.” 

A smile twitched on Jean’s face. “You have got to be kidding.” 

Julian threw up his hands in exasperation. “Everyone says that. Just cause I can’t hold up a building like you doesn’t mean I can throw a punch. Now let me out of here. I will pack up and leave this town tonight. You’ll never see me again.” 

Jean’s smile widened, “Let me guess. Le Roi told you that.” 

“Told me what?”

“About the building.”

“Would you just let me out of here?” 

“What are you going to do when I let you out?” 

Julian shook his head. “I told you. Leave. I’ve done what the master wanted of me. I’m going back to Paris. I’ll disappear into the shadows. “

“And what did the y’noth want?” 

Julian looked at him. “You,” he said. “He wanted you back.” 

Jean shook his head. “He can’t have me.” 

“How can you be sure?” 

Jean said something in a language that Julian did not recognize and then crossed himself. “The barrier is down,” he said, turning away. 

Julian extended his hand. Where it had met resistance before, it passes easily. He stepped out of the space. 

“You can go,” the older convict said. 

Julian started to walk towards the door but then he stopped and turned around. He reached in his pocket and took out a small packet of material. “I heard you made this,” he said. Jean turned towards him and watched as he unfolded the cloth and revealed the figurine of a white horse. 

Jean reached out. “May I?” he asked. Julian nodded. Jean plucked it from Julian’s hand.

Jean took it and turned it over in his hand before handing it back. “Chenildieu gave it to you? Or’d you steal it?” 

Julian shook his head. “I thought it would protect me.” 

“From what?” 

Julian looked at him. 

“Did it?” Jean asked. 

Julian gestured at his face. “Does it look like it?” 

“Only one thing I have ever found to protect me from the beast,” Jean said. 

Julian looked at him. 

Jean looked over at the prie-dieu, staring at the crucifix that hung over it. The crucifix sparkled in the flickering candlelight given off by the two candles that burned in their silver candlesticks to either side. “The Lord is my strength and my shield. My heart trusts in him and I am helped,” he said. “That is from Psalm 28, verse 7.” He turned back at Julian. “I would teach you, my son, if you want to learn. For eight years, He has protected me.” 

Julian followed the gaze to the cross and then looked back at him. “I have never been much of a praying type.” 

Jean nodded. “Neither was I. I was in chains nineteen years. Nineteen years! Can you imagine? That’s almost as old as you.”

Julian was half a dozen years older than that, but it did not seem worth arguing the point. 

“I had barely enough money to live a week. No one would give me work, a place to sleep. I was angry. A priest was kind to me, and in payment for that kindness, I stole his silver.” Jean shook his head. “They caught me, of course. And instead of sending me back to Toulon, as he could have, he forgave me.” 

Julian shook his head. “Why did you stay in Toulon? From the stories I heard, it sounds like you could have gotten the chains off at any point.”

Jean laughed a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, I made that mistake many times. The problem was not getting out of the chains. The problem was staying out of them. Every time I used the gift of the demons, he exacted his price. So tempting. So tantalizing.” He looked at Julian. “The priest, well, he was a Bishop but I did not know that until later, he taught me another way.” 

Julian arranged the horse figurine in the cloth and folded the cloth around it. “Do you still …what do you call this? Carving?” 

“From time to time.” 

“Even though that gift comes from demons?” 

Jean smiled slightly and shook his head. “It doesn’t. Not exactly. God created all, yes?” 

Julian shrugged. “That’s what the priests say.” 

“That includes the demons. The gift is from God. What the demon does is hijacks our doubt, our moments of faithlessness, and uses that doubt in God’s goodness to do lead us astray. So long as I do not loose sight in my faith in God, so long as I do not let doubt creep into my heart, the demon can not touch me.” 

“That is what you would teach me?” 

“If you would learn it.” 

Julian thought about being free from the Master. No more waking up from a dream, his mind flooded with terror. No more moments when the Master grabbed him to see through his eyes, hear through his ears. There was an appeal to that. But then he remembered kneeling as the Master entered his mind for the first time and the sense of boundlessness. Power. The pride he felt when the Master had told him it had been nearly a century since he had found someone else who could serve him in this way. 

Still, what could it hurt to learn? Julian tucked the horse back into his pocket and looked at Jean. “Would you show me?”

Jean’s eyes lit in a smile, but his expression remained serious. He stood and gestured at the prie-dieu. “This way. We will start here.” 

****

He was only half asleep. The sky had been lightening when he had left the church where Jean-le-Cric had taken him and he was exhausted. He had walked back to the inn in pouring rain and the streets were soft and muddy. The headache persisted. 

What sleep he was getting was uneasy. In one dream, people he knew kept appearing out of the mist. His father. Chenilidieu. Babet. Le Roi. Each came up to him and looked him in the face. “Where have you been?” they demanded, before being shoved aside. And then, instead of a person, it was his master. Vast and unknowable, he tried to cringe back but he was held, chained. Its mouth was inches from his head, a pustule on its skin erupted and sprayed it ocher on his face. When it asked where he had been, he was suddenly back in the basement of St. Dominic’s. 

Jean-le-Cric was there. He lay prostrate on the ground, within the great chalk cross on the floor, his arms extended along the arms. Julian wondered if he were dead. He heard something like laughing, a deep and rolling chortle that caused the ground to tremble beneath his feet. Jean looked up, in his direction, but did not see him.

Julian wrapped the blanket around his body tighter. He was still damp and chilled. His eyes itched and watered. He rubbed them. He rolled on his side and pressed his head to into the straw. He put his hand the ear that was upwards and tried to get back to sleep. No matter how hard he blocked his ears, he could hear a terrible laugh. 

Jean-le-Cric looked at him with great sadness. 

_Watch thissssss. It is happening!_

Julian sat up abruptly. His whole body was trembling. Something was about to happen, something that would please his master. 

Francesca, the innkeepers daughter was sweeping the common room. She smiled at him. “I wondered when you’d be up.”

He shook his head, “It was a long night.” 

“Was it? I heard Papa complain that when the Inspector made that arrest, it drove the custom away.”

Julian nodded as he ran his fingers through his rumpled hair and pulled on his boots. At least they were dry. The slippers he had worn last night were still soaked. “Excuse me, I must….” 

Franesca looked at him oddly but stepped aside as he made for the door. 

He looked up the street and down, this way and that, trying to figure out what direction to go. He picked a direction at random. The streets were muddy and unpleasant. There was a cart driving by, pulled by an old horse and suddenly the cart’s wheel got mired in the muck. 

The cartdriver snapped the whip, but the wheel would not move. He got down off the cart to examine the wheel. As he did, Julian recognized the man as Fauchelevent. 

Julian walked on. He was not a carter, there was nothing he could do. 

Inspector Javert was walking towards him. Julian felt a bubble of panic rise up, but Javert was not even looking at him. Javert swept by him. 

He was interrupted by a scream from the horse. It was an awful sound. 

Julian turned around. The shafts of the cart had somehow broken. The horse was white eyed and panicked in its traces and it struggled. It was clearly injured. Its back legs would not hold its weight. A man ran up and grabbed hold of the bridle while another person worked to cut it free. A shout went up. “The driver! He is caught under the wheel!”

Julian saw Javert at the scene. Javert spoke to a boy, who went running off. 

A crowd was gathering. 

As Julian approached, he heard the old man cry out, “Help! Who will save an old man?” 

Julian looked around. The cart was overloaded and sinking fast in the mud. What could he do? 

A voice called out from the far side of the crowd. Julian could not see the face, but he recognized Jean’s voice. “Is there a jack screw to be had?”

“A boy went for one,” answered someone. 

“How long until it is here?” Jean asked. 

“It will be nearly quarter of an hour before it can get here from the farrier’s at Flauchot’s place.” 

“A quarter of an hour!” 

The cart continued to sink in the mud. Fauchelevent drew breath in an awful wheeze. “Help! My ribs are breaking!” 

“It is impossible to wait that long!”

“But we must. What else can we do?” 

“Look,” said Jean, “There is still space enough for a man to crawl in and lift the cart on his back.”

The crowd began to mutter. “Impossible” and “He’d have to be devilishly strong”. “He’d be crushed!” 

“There are five louis d’or to be earned!”

There was silence. 

“Ten!” 

“Monsieur le mayor, what you ask is impossible.” 

Julian at Jean and realized that the mayor was Jean-le-Cric. His mouth fell open.

“Twenty!” the mayor proclaimed.

“It is not the will which is lacking,” said Inspector Javert. 

Jean-le-Cric looked up sharply, noticing Javert for the first time. Julian looked between Jean-le-Cric and Javert. 

“It is the strength. One would have to be a terrible man to lift such a cart on his back. I have only known one other who could do such a thing. He was a convict.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Jean

“In the galleys at Toulon.”

Julian saw Jean turn pale. 

Julian blinked and when his eyes opened, he staggered. He again saw double. The man next to him reached out. “You okay?” But Julian blinked again and he realized that he saw again seeing through both eyes. They came into focus. There was Javert, still standing there, staring, He was surrounded by the black aura. 

Where was Jean? 

There, under the cart. He lay under the axle and struggled to bring his arms and knees together. The black aura surrounded him, as well. 

Suddenly, the cart started to move, to rise. “Help,” gasped out Jean. The crowd surged forward and lifted the cart. 

The old man was saved. The crowd wept. 

Javert stared at Jean. 

_It is done._ the y’noth said in his head. _He has used my gift. He is mine, again._

***

The next morning, Julian sat in the inn and packed his belongings back in the bag. He felt good. The headache had subsided during the night. His sleep had been uninterrupted by dreams, save one. “You leaving?” the innkeeper asked. 

Julian nodded. “Time to move on.” 

“Where will you go next?” 

Julian shrugged. He had dreamed of the stockades for exhibiting the convicted to the public, before they were carted away to the bagne. He had seen the building behind the stockades and he had recognized it - the courthouse from Arras. The thought of going into a courthouse made his hands tremble, but he had no choice. “Abbeville, perhaps,” he said to the innkeeper, suggesting a town in the opposite direction from Arras. 

The innkeeper nodded. “Well, should you find yourself back here, you tell a good tale. My hearth is always open to you.” 

Julian nodded. “Thank you sir.”

Shouldering his pack, Julian walked out into the street, wishing he was done with Jean-le-Cric and Javert, but knowing he was not. 

*****

The courtroom was packed. Julian took a seat near the back. As he rested his head against the wall behind him, he closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, his Master was with him. 

There was the man, Champatheiue. He was accused of being Jean Valjean. Jean-le-Cric. He was a sorry specimen but Julian supposed there was some resemblance. Javert came in, wrapped in his black aura and he took the stand. Yes, this was Jean Valjean. He recognized him, of course. He swept back out of the courtroom and Julian shrunk down in his seat. 

To his surprise, three convicts were brought in, in chains. The first was Chenildieu. The years since Julian had been partnered to him had not been kind. Julian leaned forward, watching as his old chainmate identified the wrong man. Through his master’s eyes, he could see the sickly cast to Chenildieu’s skin, wan from years of the y’noth’s feeding. Julian bit his lip, realizing that Chenildieu’s death would be a mercy. 

He asked inwardly, “Is that why you brought me here? To see Chenildieu?”

 _Nnnnnnnnnnnno._

“Then why?” he demanded. 

The y’noth laughed in his mind. The sound was like the sensation of broken bones, grating against each other. _I want to sssssssssssssee Jean-le-Cric._

“But he is not here!” 

_Llllllllllllllllook._

Julian followed his master’s gaze. Sitting behind the judges box, he could not see the man, but the aura. 

_It issssssssssssss good to have himmmmmm back._

“What of Chenildeiu?” 

The laughter in his head intensified. _Who?_

****

After the dark fell, Julian crept into the jail at Arras. Wrapped so tightly in shadows he was invisible, he waited until the turnkey opened the gate to let the porter pushing a cart of slop forward into the cells. He watched, as the food was handed out and the porter left. For a moment, he panicked, trapped. He was locked in now.

He felt the y’noth’s touch on his mind, reassuring. Wrapped in shadows, escaping this place would be trivial. Still, the sound of the heavy doors swinging shut and latching sent a pulse of terror through his stomach. He had no intention of ever being imprisoned again. 

Once the guard was gone, he crept through the narrow corridor lined with bars. A dozen cages, each the size of loose box for a horse, faced each the walkway. As he crept by, he felt the y’noth glide with him, unfurling a tentacle through the bars to touch the sleeping minds of the prisoners: a snoring drunk, a sallow fat man, and others who laid in piles of straw on uncovered on the bare stone floor. He looked in every cell. Jean was not there. 

“He’s gone,” he said to the y’noth, without voicing the words. “Maybe they took him to Paris.” 

_Nooooooooo,_ replied his master. _Look again._

So, Julian walked the corridor again. There were three cells that were empty. _Stop here,_ the y’noth said. 

Julian paused outside one of the cages. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he was looking through his master’s eyes. On the stone near the window, was a glowing handprint, a left hand that had been splayed on the stone. One of the bars also glowed. 

_Yesssssss, _hissed the y’noth with some satisfaction.__

__“What is it?” he asked._ _

___He used my gifts to escape. ____ _

____Julian stared at the barred window. “How could he have gotten out?” he asked. “The bars are intact.”_ _ _ _

____The y’noth did not reply. Abruptly the handprints disappeared from his view and the constant pressure in his skull of the y’noth sharing his mind was gone. It was a strange sensation of both claustrophobia – of there not being nearly enough space for such a vast creature – and agoraphobia – Julian had a sense of the enormity of the monster’s mind. Now, he was back to just being himself, standing in the dark corridor of the jail._ _ _ _

____With a sigh, he gathered the shadows and waited for the guard to come and open the door._ _ _ _


	4. Sûreté

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marionette gets another string.

**Summer, 1830**

During the day, the opulent mansion glittered, but in the dim light of the hours between midnight and dawn, all that could be seen was dark outlines and the occasional luster of highly polished fine materials. In the dining room, high backed chairs with smooth silk upholstery surrounded a grand table. A vast chandelier that held at least hundred candles, hung, unlit from the ceiling. Paintings in gilt frames covered were dark rectangles on the walls. The windows were hung with heavy velvet curtains. The room was still until a curtain twitched and then fell still. A shadow detached itself from the window and made its way, silently, across the room towards a grand hutch that covered most of a wall. 

Almost silently, the shadow opened a drawer in the hutch. The first drawer contained table linens. It shut the drawer and tried the next one. The next drawer was heavy and hard to pull. Inside, tucked in compartments to separate the spoons from the forks, was a fine set of golden flatware that gleamed in the dim light. The shadow picked up a knife and weighed it in its hand. Satisfied, it opened the drawer of table linens and removed a stack of napkins. 

The shadow put a pack on the table and opened it. Working quickly now, the shadow wrapped the flatware in napkins and placed each bundle in the pack. When the drawer was empty, the shadow hefted the pack and slipped silently towards the window. The empty drawer was left, dangling open, for the butler to find in the morning. 

*** 

He still had plenty of money left from the flatware haul, but Claquesous, as he called himself again, was bored. A week ago they had had a huge fight over nothing and Babet had left in a huff. It was no fun spending money by himself. Food had no taste. Fine wines were just grape juice. Dicing brought no thrills. Hookers were no fun without the bragging afterwards. He had no interest the companionship of strangers. He was lonely. He longed for Babet, but seeing Babet came with a price. He’d have to apologize. 

Instead, Claquesous had advanced the calendar on his next mark. (They were going to do this job together, but he couldn’t take it anymore). They had been watching this house for weeks and it seemed promising. The family lived on their estate in Burgandy, but they kept a mansion in the city for visits. When they were not in residence, there was a staff of two: a maid and a handyman. When they were in residence, they brought their household with them. The day before they arrived, carriage after carriage pulled up, disengorging a vast staff of maids, cooks and butlers. The parade ended with the arrival of a grand gilded carriage, carrying the Grand Duke and Duchess. A day or two after the royal couple arrived the parade would resume. This time the carriages brought powdered guests to lauded parties that went far into the night. 

On this night the house was unattended. The handyman had left about an hour ago. He had a fondness for the dice. A week or two ago, Claquesous had even diced with him about a mile from here, in the backroom of a tavern. 

The maid was harder to get out of the house, but a day ago, she had received a letter that her mother was ill and could she come visit? Babet had written most of the letter before he had stormed off. Claquesous had finished it. Claquesous had felt guilty, putting pen to ink on one of Babet’s fine forgeries, afraid he would ruin it, but what was he to do? Babet was gone. He must have done a credible job because a quarter of an hour after the handyman left, the maid had bustled out, wrapped in a cloak. 

At worst, Claquesous figured he had an hour before she got to her mother’s and found that the letter was a fake. 

Cloaked, and with a mask to cover his face, he approached the garden door of the house. He wore the shadows like a second cloak. It took just seconds to jimmy the lock, and he was inside. A quick glance around the room showed nothing of interest and he quietly made his way toward the next room. Another turn of good luck, all of the silver was laid out, mid polish, on a shining table. 

With a smile, he stepped into the room. This was going to be easy. Maybe the jewelry would be laid out upstairs, as well. 

“Now!” a deep voice ordered. 

Instinctively, he reached for the shadows, but they escaped his grasp. He was bathed in light. His fingers came back empty as the shadows slid into the far corners of the room. He spun around. There was light on him from all sides. 

Panic boiled up and he sprinted towards the door, only to run headlong into a man. “Not so fast!” the man growled as he was shoved back into the room of light. Claquesous tripped as he was pushed back and he fell to the ground. 

A figure walked towards him. Backlit, all Claquesous could make out was his stature. He was tall and he walked forward with an air of menace, gripping a heavy club in his fist. There was no doubt in his mind. This man belonged to the police. This was an ambush not a rival trying to steal his take. Desperate panic welled up in him. He would not go back to jail. He could smell the rank air of Toulon. There was a knife in his boot. If he could get it…

The policeman crouched down in front of him, tucking his club under his arm. He blocked the light that was shining directly in Claquesous’s eye. His own face was illuminated by a light behind Claquesous. He had a large nose. Whiskers. A heavy brow. Claquesous was noticing the face in pieces. It was a face he had seen before but he did not know where. 

His hand was creeping towards his boot as he waited for the right moment to reach out and strike. 

The policeman glanced at his hand and smirked. Moving fast, his hand snaked out and Clasquesous felt the cold tentacles of his Master close like iron around his wrist. He stifled a scream of surprise. The sound came out as an undignified squeak.

His eyes widened as he looked at the policeman a second time, placing him now. “Javert,” he said, trying to twist his wrist free of the policeman’s grasp. 

“At your service.” Javert smiled but the smile did not reach his eyes. His eyes were narrow and tight. “I suppose you are right.” Javert reached out and pulled the mask from Clasquesous’s face. He reached his hand to Claquesous’s chin so he could look at the scar. The scar oozed a greenish puss. Javert ran his finger over the ropey flesh. Claquesous had a vivid memory of kneeling in the dark as the y’noth crept towards him. 

Defiantly, Clasquesous glared at him. With his head turned, he could not see the policeman’s face but he felt the slimy touch of his Master through the copper’s fingers. He remembered the night in the tavern, when he had seen Javert search a man and the man had reacted so strongly to the touch. Claquesous had endured worse and he did not cringe.

Javert released him and stood. He towered over Clasquesous. “Pierre Lagrande. Or should I say Julian Dreux? Or it’s Claquesous now, isn’t it? I won’t bother with 32108. They’ll issue a new number.” 

Claquesous stared at the Javert. How did he even know that? “Don’t bother,” he muttered. “I’ll be free in a month.” 

“Probably,” Javert agreed. “It took Jean Valjean three months to get free after I sent him back, but the price he pays for his gift is different than yours.” Javert circled Claquesous. Claquesous did not bother to twist to follow the man. Javert came to a stop in front of him and looked down. “You’ll probably be executed, anyway, after what you did to your chain mate.” Javert smiled again with a smile that did not reach his eyes “Then again, I am not sure we can even hold you that long. That trick with the shadows is very handy.” 

Javert waved his hand and all but one of the lights went out. Clasquesous felt the shadows slide in towards him, but he did not reach for them. Not yet. They would not do him any good with Javert watching. 

Javert offered him his hand to pull him up. Clasquesous hesitated, but then reached for that hand. He felt the tentacles close around his fingers and pull him to his feet. “No,” Javert said. “I have something else in mind for you.” 

***

A week later, Clasquesous made his way slowly back to the apartment. The mask was settled back on his face and his hood was drawn. It was broad daylight and the shadows were tiny and feeble underfoot, so he walked with his head down and his shoulders hunched. He longed to go home but dreaded how empty it would be. 

Wearily, he walked up the steps to the room he had once shared with Babet. Babet had probably cleared out his stuff in the last week. He opened the door and stepped in. 

The room was as he had left it nearly a week ago: the bed was unmade, the floor was unswept, the clothes were in a heap on the floor, there were dirty dishes left here and there. He did not know what he expected, but had hoped that maybe something would have changed. 

He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and he turned, pushing his hood back as he did so. Babet was standing with his back against the wall, next to the door, knife drawn. 

“Where have you been?” Babet demanded. 

Clasquesous shook his head as he reached up to untie the string that held the mask in place. “La Conceierge,” he said and he removed the mask from his face. Belatedly, he glanced around, “Anyone else here?” 

“No,” Babet replied, slowly lowering the knife. 

Clasquesous nodded as he pealed the mask from his face and set it down on the table. “It’s good to see you.” 

Babet looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You look terrible,” he said. “What happened to you?” 

“The mansion on Rue de Blue was a trap. Walked right into it.” 

Babet leaned back against the wall. He crossed his arms, with the knife still in hand. “Go on.” 

“There was an entire squad of coppers waiting for me.” 

Babet shook his head. “Don’t exaggerate, ‘sous.”

Claquesous looked at him. “You were watching?” 

“’Course. Only two came out with you.” 

Claquesous sighed turned away, unbuttoning his shirt. It was filthy, reeking of sweat and somehow, the touch of his Master still clung to it. “Two, ten, what’s the difference? They want to execute me.” He slid the shirt off his shoulders. The brand that marked him as escaped lifer, the letters T and P, was hardly news to Babet. “I escaped. La Concierge is easy compared to Toulon. No chains. Just cells.” He let the shirt slide to the floor. “Got any water up here? I am filthy.”

Babet pushed off the wall and peered into the pitcher. “Looks like there is some in the jug.” 

The water had been in the jug for a week, but Claquesous didn’t care. He poured it into the washbowl. The washbowl was cracked and still dirty from the last time he used it. He turned to a pile of clothing on the floor and rummaged round for a rag. 

Babet watched him “The escape was clean?” he asked after a few moments.

Claquesous scrubbed the dirt and dried ooze from his face. “Clean as they come,” he muttered into the cloth. 

Babet sat down on the edge of the bed. “We were trying to decide if we were going to try and break you out. You know that kid? Montparnesse?” 

Claquesous snorted. “That little punk?”

Babet nodded. “He wants more of the action.” 

“I bet he does.” 

“He was trying to confirm where you were. I had him follow the carriage to La Concierge, but we lost you after that. We could not determine what floor you were on. Brujon had heard a rumor that you had been moved, but we did not know where.”

Clasquesous lowered his head, remembering the day-lit ride, chained to Inspector Javert. The carriage had been a windowless box. Javert had hung laterns from each of the four the corners of the box, so, even if he had somehow escaped the cuffs, there would be no shadows for him to summon. Hours after he had gotten to La Concierge, he had been taken from the prison in another carriage and brought to a house somewhere in the Marais, he had guessed, based on the length of the ride and the sounds of the neighborhood. 

He had been kept in that house for five days. For four days they had kept him in a cell with lanterns at all corners. For four days they had kept him in chains, hand and foot. For four days he had been poked and prodded by doctors and priests. His blinded eye had been pried open and examined. They had performed an exorcism. (Nothing had happened, much to the consternation of the priest.) Cops and lawyers had questioned him. Then had come the ultimatum. 

He had been asleep when Javert had entered the cell. He had been dreaming, dreaming of being back in Toulon. The dream had been a confused muddle of when his eye had been taken, when he had submitted to his master and when he had embraced the master’s gift. 

When he woke, Javert had been sitting on a chair, his back stiff and his eyes narrow, watching him. He had not seen Javert since the day of the transfer. 

***

Clasquesous sat up slowly. 

“What should I call you?” Javert asked. 

Claquesous shrugged. “It does not matter.” 

“It does matter,” Javert replied. “You are about to sign some legal documents. I want to know who I am talking to.” 

Claquesous leaned back against the wall, pulling his feet up onto the bunk and wrapping his chained hands around his knees. Looking at the ceiling, he thought of the endless stream of names he had worn over his life. With a shrug, he said, “My father called me Bobby. Bobby Sullivan. He was from England.” 

Javert studied him. Claquesous stared at his chained hands. For the first time in years he thought of his father. His father had been short, like Claquesous, but he tended towards pudgy. He had been a clown, a jester, a foil, in the carnival’s acts. He could lie, cheat and steal the marks with the best of them, but there were lines he would never cross. If his father were here, now, he’d turn away from Claquesous in disgust. Using the name his father had called him seemed to fit the disgrace. 

Javert interrupted his reverie by saying, “Bobby Sullivan it is.” Javert picked up a folder from the floor and opened it on his lap. “I have a choice for you, Bobby Sullivan. Pierre Legrand. Julian Druex, Claquesous.” Claquesous turned his head to look Javert. Javert held up a sheet of paper. “Do you read?” 

Claquesous shrugged. “A bit,” he said. 

“I will tell you what it says.” Javert said. “This is a confession. It explains how you murdered your chain mate, brutally cutting him to pieces to get the shackle off his foot, and then you savagely mutilated the body.” 

Clasquesous looked down at his hands. It did not really matter that the y’noth had killed Frances when his attempts to cut through the shackle had failed. The blood had been everywhere. He had been soaked in it. It had been much harder to cut the foot off than he had thought, and in his frustration he had stabbed the corpse repeatedly. 

Javert put the first piece of paper back into the folder and picked up a second. 

“What is the other?” he asked.

Javert paused. “An opportunity,” he said. 

Claquesous laughed. It came out bitter and angry. 

“I need eyes,” Javert said. 

“I only have one,” Claquesous muttered. “And that one, I only get sometimes.” 

“And ears.” 

“You want me to be a rat,” Claquesous said. 

“The other is a set of conscription papers,” Javert said. “You will be an agent of the Sûreté. You promise to feed us information, to be a spy, to accept assignments as they come to you. You will sign both of these. I will keep the confession filed away. Then you will be free to go. You will report to me. Understand?” 

“And if I refuse to sign?”

Javert closed the folder and looked at him. 

Clasquesous met Javert’s gaze and understood. He looked around the room. He wondered how they would do it. Poison? Firing squad? A knife in the back? Surely nothing so public as the guillotine. 

He signed the papers. 

***

Javert had unchained him and given him a decent meal. That night he had been transferred back to La Conceirge. They had put him in a regular cell, dark and crowded and dirty, like any other prisoner. Without the chains, with plenty of shadows, he could have walked out the door at any time. He had waited until the next night and then slipped out as the guards were bringing dinner to the prisoners. 

“What was Montparnesse planning?” he asked Babet. 

Babet shrugged. “He thought he could say he was your son and try and sneak you some medicine.” 

Claquesous put down the cloth, “Surely I do not look that old!”

Babet chuckled as he stood and put down the knife he had been holding all this time. “You look like hell but no, you do not look old.” 

Claquesous smiled as the ice thawed between them. He turned and wrapped Babet in his arms. “It’s good to be home.” 

“It is good to have you home.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustrations for "Gifts"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707866) by [20thcenturyvole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/pseuds/20thcenturyvole), [spiderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire)




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